ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


SHORT  STORIES  OF 
AMERICA 


EDITED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY, 
COURSE  OUTLINE,  AND  READING  LISTS 

BY 

ROBERT  L.  RAMSAY,  PH.D. 

/  r 

PBOFES8OB  OF  ENGLISH,  UNIVERSITY  OP  MISSOURI 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON   •  NEW  YORK   •   CHICAGO  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

fiiticrjji&e  pies?  Cambrib0e 


COPYRIGHT,   1911,  BY    HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


The  short  stories  reprinted  in  this  collection  are 
used  by  permission  of  and  special  arrangement 
with  the  proprietors  of  their  respective  copyrights. 


fcfjt  Rtbmffoe  JJrt « 

CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE   U  •  S  .  A 


TO  MY  WIFE 

HELPER  I  CRITIC  :  FRIEND 
THIS  BOOK  IS  INSCRIBED 


7013 


CONTENTS 

A  MAP  OP  THE  PRINCIPAL  LOCAL-COLOR  REGIONS  OP  THE 

UNITED  STATES Frontispiece 

PREFACE vii 

THE  SHORT  STORY  AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA 
I.  THE  "SECOND  DISCOVERY  OF  AMERICA"     ....       1 

II.  THE  "LITERARY  STATES"  OF  AMERICA 5 

III.  STAGES  OF  THE  LOCAL-COLOR  MOVEMENT  ....    20 

AMERICAN  TYPES:  STORIES  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

1.  THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP 

BretHarte 29 

(The  "Forty-Niners"  of  the  Mountain  West) 

2.  TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  AT  THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

Mary  N.  Murfree    ...    42 

(The  Mountaineers  of  "Appalachia") 
.3.  BEN  AND  JUDAS      .    .     .    Maurice  Thompson  ...    66 

(The  Negroes  of  the  Lower  South) 
4.  AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  .    Hamlin  Garland      ...    88 

(The  Homesteaders  of  the  Middle  West) 
6.  ELLIE'S  FURNISHING   .    .    Helen  R.  Martin      .    .    .  105 

(The  Pennsylvania  Dutch) 

AMERICAN   TRADITIONS:   STORIES    OF   SOCIAL 
HERITAGE 

6.  THE  ARRIVAL  OP  A  TRUE  SOUTHERN  LADY 

Francis  HopJcinson  Smith .  123 
(The  Old  Dominion) 

7.  ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD  .    Mary  Willcins  Freeman     .  136 

(Old  New  England) 

8.  AT  THE  'CADIAN  BALL     .    Kate  Chopin 149 

(Creole  Land) 

9.  THE  PEARLS  OP  LORETO  .    Gertriide  Atherton     .    .    .  161 

(California  and  the  Old  West) 


vi  CONTENTS 

AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES:  STORIES  OF  THE  SPIRIT 
OF  PLACE 

10.  THE  WINDIGO     ....    Mary  Hartwett  Catherwood  191 

(Mackinac) 

11.  THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  .    .    James  Weber  Linn  .    .    .  213 

(The  Arid  Southwest) 

12.  LOVE  OF  LIFE    ....    Jack  London 231 

(Alaska) 

AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES:    STORIES    OF    COM- 
MUNAL CONSCIOUSNESS 

13.  BY  THE  ROD  OF  His  WRATH  William  AUen  White  .    .  257 

(The  Middle  West) 

14.  THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER 

0.  Henry 273 

(New  York  City) 

15.  A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT     .    0.  Henry 280 

(The  Blue  Grass) 

THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

16.  A  LOCAL  COLORIST      .    .    Annie  Trumbull  Slosson   .  301 

THE  ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING: 
STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS 

A.  CONCERNING  THE  PLOT 321 

B.  CONCERNING  THE  CHARACTERIZATION 330 

C.  CONCERNING  THE  SETTING 333 

D.  CONCERNING  THE  MOOD 336 

E.  CONCERNING  THE  STORY  AS  A  WHOLE       337 

READING  LISTS 

A.  ONE  HUNDRED  ADDITIONAL  LOCAL-COLOR  STORIES     .  340 

B.  TWENTY-FIVE  STORIES  OF  SOCIAL  BACKGROUND    .    .  344 

C.  FIFTEEN  HISTORICAL  SHORT  STORIES 345 

D.  FORTY  REPRESENTATIVE  PLOT  OR  CHARACTER  STORIES  345 

E.  TWENTY  REPRESENTATIVE  STORIES  OF  SPECIAL  TYPES  346 

F.  FIFTEEN  STORIES  OF  MOOD 347 

G.  SOME  REPRESENTATIVE  MODERN  ONE-ACT  PLAYS  .    .  347 


PREFACE 

RECENT  progress  in  the  teaching  of  English  composition 
and  literature  in  our  high  schools  and  colleges  has  been 
marked  by  two  tendencies :  a  rapidly  increasing  use  of  the 
short  story,  both  in  general  English  courses  and  in  special 
courses  in  story-writing,  and  a  discovery  of  the  possibility 
of  uniting  with  mutual  profit  the  study  of  English  composi- 
tion and  the  study  of  American  life  and  institutions.  The 
present  collection  has  been  made  in  sympathy  with  both 
these  tendencies- 

Our  teachers  have  discovered  that  the  material  used  and 
the  compositions  assigned  in  English  courses  lose  none  of 
their  value  by  being  made  actual  and  living.  What  our 
students  read  and  admire  most  is  certainly  the  current 
short  story;  what  they  have  too  often  been  required  to 
write  is  the  Weekly  Theme  —  a  curious  product,  which  re- 
sembles nothing  whatever  in  the  real  world  of  literature, 
and  which  no  one  would  ever  read  or  write  except  under 
dire  compulsion.  Yet  the  study  of  those  actual  forms  that 
writers  use  who  must  get  themselves  read,  and  the  attempt 
to  imitate  and  reproduce  such  forms  of  writing,  furnish 
quite  as  sound  a  way  of  imparting  the  principles  of  punctu- 
ation, spelling,  and  good  usage,  and  a  far  more  effective 
means  of  awakening  the  student  to  the  real  meaning  of  the 
discipline  he  is  undergoing,  and  stimulating  in  him  an  am- 
bition to  express  himself. 

The  connection  between  composition  and  citizenship 
arose  out  of  the  practical  necessities  of  the  strenuous  year 
when  our  schools  were  called  upon  to  prepare  for  American 
participation  in  the  great  World  War.  The  combination 
has  been  deemed  worthy  of  continuance  by  many  of  our 
institutions.  It  will  be  found  fruitful  provided  the  term 


viii  PREFACE 

"citizenship"  is  not  too  narrowly  interpreted.  If  citizen- 
ship is  taken  to  mean  merely  knowledge  of  our  political 
and  governmental  institutions,  and  the  student  is  required 
to  write  nothing  but  digests  and  discussions  of  the  problems 
of  politics,  the  resulting  discipline  will  be  narrower  and  less 
vital  than  before.  A  considerable  proportion  of  our  stu- 
dents, perhaps  happily  for  the  Republic,  are  not  politically 
minded.  Many  of  those  most  highly  gifted  and  best  worth 
training  will  never  have  anything  of  their  own  to  say  about 
governmental  institutions;  and  all  of  them  need  the  oppor- 
tunity to  try  other  forms  of  composition  than  a  continuous 
succession  of  exposition  and  argument.  It  is  entirely  pos- 
sible, however,  without  sacrificing  the  very  real  values  of 
the  alliance,  to  relieve  it  of  rigidity  and  monotony.  If  it 
be  the  duty  of  a  good  citizen  to  know  the  life  and  not 
merely  the  institutions  of  his  country,  a  course  in  citizen- 
ship may  well  find  room  to  train  the  sympathetic  imagina- 
tion as  well  as  the  intelligent  comprehension  of  its  students. 

Such  imaginative  training  in  the  quality  of  American  life 
is  found  in  literature;  and  most  immediately  in  that  sort  of 
literature  through  which  American  writers  for  the  last  half- 
century  have  striven  to  interpret  America.  This  literary 
movement,  known  variously  as  American  Regionalism, 
Local  Color,  or  the  Spirit  of  Home,  it  is  the  object  of  the 
present  volume  to  illustrate.  It  is  hoped,  therefore,  that 
the  stories  here  brought  together  with  the  definite  purpose 
of  showing  how  each  section  of  America  has  reached  self- 
revelation  through  the  national  American  form  of  the  short 
story  may  be  found  of  service  to  forward-looking  teachers 
both  of  English  and  of  Americanism. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  helpful  to  add  a  few  suggestions  for 
the  planning  of  a  special  course  in  story-writing,  or,  as  it 
is  often  called,  Narration  and  Description.  In  the  first 
place,  such  a  course  should  not  be  made  too  narrow  or 
technical.  The  story  in  its  broadest  sense  —  not  the  tech- 


PREFACE  ix 

nical  "Short-Story"  invented  by  Poe,  which  is  difficult  for 
beginners  and  should  be  brought  in,  if  at  all,  only  at  the 
end  —  should  be  taken  as  central,  but  need  not  be  the  only 
form  of  composition  required.  A  profitable  course  may 
indeed  be  arranged  in  which  the  story  is  the  only  literary 
form  attempted;  for  all  the  ingredients  of  narration  —  ac- 
tion, dialogue,  comment  —  all  the  special  story  elements 
—  plot,  character,  setting,  and  mood  or  atmosphere,  — 
and  every  variety  of  description  as  well,  may  be  studied 
and  practiced  within  its  comprehensive  limits.  But  it  is 
preferable,  on  the  whole,  to  use  this  literary  form  rather  as 
a  nucleus,  and  to  illuminate  the  special  aspects  of  its  tech- 
nique by  a  comparative  study  of  forms  more  confined  in 
their  range.  Thus  the  anecdote  will  illustrate  in  miniature 
the  elements  of  plot-structure;  the  photo-play  may  give 
practice  in  the  invention  of  plots  and  the  handling  of  pure 
action;  the  one-act  play  or  dramatic  sketch,  composed 
of  action  plus  dialogue,  will  supply  special  opportunities 
for  character-drawing  without  analysis  or  description;  the 
descriptive  sketch  may  exemplify  setting  and  characteriza- 
tion, and  may  be  used  for  drill  in  every  sort  of  description 
proper;  the  personal  essay  provides  pure  comment  and 
analysis;  and  the  lyric  poem  may  convey  mere  mood  or 
atmosphere.  In  this  way  every  aspect  of  story- writing  may 
be  separately  approached  before  the  complete  and  com- 
posite form  is  attempted.  The  contemporary  study  and 
practice  of  several  different  forms  probably  gives  the  maxi- 
mum benefit  in  broadening  and  stimulating  the  student's 
range  of  reading  and  appreciation. 

There  is  a  danger  that  sometimes  arises,  especially  in 
high-school  courses  in  story-writing,  of  neglecting  the  ele- 
mentary matters  of  formal  correctness  in  favor  of  the  more 
interesting  problems  of  imaginative  composition.  The 
teacher  must  be  unremitting  in  checking  careless  habit' 
that  have  persisted,  and  should  insist  upon  a  high  stand 


x  PREFACE 

ard  of  accuracy  in  all  matters  of  form  and  grammar, 
diction,  sentence-structure,  and  paragraphing.  On  no  ac- 
count should  the  intellectual  side  of  imaginative  composi- 
tion be  lost  sight  of.  Hard  thinking  is  needed  for  the 
mastery  of  fundamental  principles  of  structure  and  tech- 
nique in  the  "literature  of  power"  quite  as  much  as  in  the 
"literature  of  knowledge." 

The  course  should  comprise  theory,  example,  and  prac- 
tice, example  being  more  important  than  theory,  and 
practice  more  important  than  either.  The  theory  for  an 
elementary  course  may  often  be  most  advantageously  given 
sv.  i  £*?by  lectures  and  discussions,  or  in  the  process  of  analyzing 
^\  and  studying  the  examples.  A  set  of  study  questions  for 
the  analysis  and  criticism  of  stories  read,  and  also  of  those 
written  by  students,  is  provided  at  the  end  of  this  volume. 
The  sixteen  stories  here  included  will  exemplify  many 
different  methods  of  plot-handing,  character-drawing,  and 
mood-shaping,  as  well  as  a  wide  variety  of  settings;  but 
if  additional  outside  reading  is  desired,  a  list  of  some  two 
hundred  noteworthy  short  stories  and  one-act  plays  has 
been  appended  which  may  be  used  for  outside  reading.  In 
the  matter  of  practice,  it  is  more  profitable  that  a  few 
stories  should  be  carefully  revised  and  rewritten  than  that 
many  should  be  merely  projected  or  half-done.  Much  of 
the  efficiency  of  the  course,  perhaps  more  than  in  teaching 
any  other  course  in  composition,  depends  on  frequent  con- 
ference with  the  individual  student. 

It  remains  to  acknowledge,  with  thanks,  the  kindly 
permission  of  the  various  authors  and  publishers  to  use 
copyright  material.  Specific  acknowledgment  is  made  in 
each  case  in  a  footnote  at  the  beginning  of  the  story.  In 
preparing  the  introductory  account  of  the  progress  and 
development  of  the  local-color  movement,  the  editor  has 
incurred  an  especial  obligation  to  four  books :  A  History  of 
American  Literature  since  1870,  by  Professor  Fred  Lewis 


PREFACE  xi 

Pattee;  The  American  Short  Story:  a  Study  of  the  Influence 
of  Locality  in  its  Development,  by  Dr.  Elias  Lieberman; 
The  Frontier  in  American  History,  by  Professor  Frederick 
J.  Turner;  and  The  Spirit  of  Home  in  the  Literature  of  the 
Lower  South,  an  unpublished  University  of  Missouri  thesis 

by  Mr.  J.  P.  Fagan. 

ROBEET  L.  RAMSAY 

COLUMBIA,   MI8SOUBI  \ 

June.  1921 , 


SHORT  STORIES  OF  AMERICA 

THE  SHORT  STORY  AS  INTERPRETER  OP 
AMERICA 

The  sun  of  truth  strikes  each  part  of  the  earth  at  a  little  different  angle; 
it  is  this  angle  which  gives  life  and  infinite  variety  to  literature. 

HAMLIN  GAHLAND,  Crumbling  Idols  (1894) 

I 

THE  "SECOND  DISCOVERY  OF  AMERICA" 

THE  most  original  contribution  of  America  to  the  litera- 
ture of  the  world  has  been,  on  the  whole,  the  development 
of  the  short  story.  Most  of  our  other  literary  achievements 
have  had  a  strong  tincture  of  foreign  influence.  Cooper 
was  the  American  Walter  Scott,  Bryant  the  American 
Wordsworth,  Irving  the  American  Addison ;  but  Poe  and 
his  successors  have  been  rather  imitated  abroad  than 
imitators.  The  American  short  story,  although  something 
very  like  it  was  invented  independently  in  France  at  about 
the  same  time,  was  borrowed  from  nowhere.  It  was  Poe, 
the  most  genuinely  original  of  American  writers,  who  took 
the  leisurely  old  tale,  unregulated  and  unrestrained,  that 
had  been  handed  down  from  time  immemorial,  and  gave  it 
the  unity,  the  definition,  and  the  concentration  that  turned 
it  into  the  modern  short  story.  There  was  something  dis- 
tinctively American  about  the  new  form.  Whether,  as 
Bret  Harte  suggested,  it  was  the  universal  American  addic- 
tion to  "swapping  funny  stories"  that  prepared  the  soil, 
or  whether  it  was  our  American  passion  for  speed  and 
mechanical  perfection  that  created  a  congenial  climate, 
certainly  no  other  form  has  made  so  general  an  appeal  to 
American  readers  or  enlisted  so  many  American  writers 


2  THE  SHORT  STORY 

eager  to  learn  its  mysteries  and  to  discover  all  its  possible 
adaptations. 

Among  the  many  varieties  of  our  national  literary  form 
developed  by  this  prodigious  activity,  the  most  distinc- 
tively national  has  been  the  story  of  American  local  color. 
Just  as  the  parent  stem  of  the  modern  short  story  sprang 
from  the  genius  of  Poe  in  the  thirties,  so  it  is  to  the  genius 
of  Bret  Harte  in  the  seventies  that  we  owe  its  most  im- 
portant offshoot.  The  essence  of  Poe's  modification  of  the 
old  tale  lay  in  his  concentration  upon  a  "single  effect" : 
his  selection  of  some  one  element  of  the  narrative  upon 
which  to  focus,  as  under  the  limelight,  the  entire  structure 
and  progress  of  the  story.  Now  the  element  which  Poe 
nearly  always  chose  for  this  purpose  was  a  certain  sort  of 
atmosphere  or  mood.  Having  determined  to  arouse  in  the 
minds  of  his  readers  a  special  emotional  state,  such  as 
gloom  in  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,"  or  horror  in 
"The  Black  Cat,"  he  contrived  with  masterly  ingenuity 
that  every  word  and  detail  in  the  whole  story  should  serve 
to  heighten  and  intensify  the  chosen  effect.  It  was  soon 
seen  by  his  successors  that  the  same  concentration  might 
be  used  for  other  elements  of  the  narrative  beside  the 
mood.  There  might  be  stories  whose  single  effect  lay  in 
the  action  or  in  the  characterization ;  and  so  there  arose 
short  stories  of  plot  and  character.  Bret  Harte  was  the 
first  American  writer  to  see  that  it  was  equally  possible 
for  the  "single  effect"  to  be  secured  in  the  setting  of  the 
story.  Thus  he  became  the  founder  of  the  school  of  Ameri- 
can regionalism  —  the  first  American  local  colorist. 

The  story  of  local  color  by  no  means  neglects  the  other 
elements  of  the  short  story  —  plot,  character,  or  mood. 
It  may,  and  in  its  best  examples  it  does  exhibit,  as  the 
stories  brought  together  in  this  volume  will  show,  the  most 
skillful  and  dramatic  handling  of  the  action,  the  most 
sympathetic  and  subtle  character-drawing,  and  the  most 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  3 

intense  and  moving  emotional  appeal.  Hence  all  sides  of 
the  art  of  story-writing  may  be  studied  in  such  stories 
quite  as  well  as  in  a  more  heterogeneous  collection.  But 
whereas  in  the  ordinary  story  the  element  of  place  is  sec- 
ondary, in  the  local-color  story  the  background  comes  into 
the  foreground.  No  story  is  a  story  of  local  color  in  the 
fullest  sense  if  its  locality  could  be  changed  without  essen- 
tially altering  its  appeal.  Every  story,  of  course,  has  a 
setting  somewhere ;  the  genuine  local-color  story  must  be 
laid  where  it  is,  or  nowhere.  From  the  perusal  of  such  a 
story  the  most  lasting  impression  always  carried  away  is 
the  sense  of  intimate  revelation  of  its  chosen  region.  When 
we  read  these  stories  we  become  travelers  and  explorers ; 
we  get  acquainted,  without  stirring  from  our  armchairs, 
with  places  we  have  never  visited,  and  our  explorations 
are  guided  so  that  we  see  and  learn  far  more  than  any 
casual  traveler  has  time  or  penetration  to  discover. 

The  time  was  ripe  for  this  new  and  delightful  form  of 
literature  when  it  came  to  America.  In  the  Middle  West 
and  West,  where  it  first  arose,  the  period  was  one  of  rapid 
opening-up  of  strange  regions,  extraordinary  shifting  of 
population,  and  a  new  spirit  of  mutual  interest  and  curi- 
osity. In  the  South,  where  the  movement  was  destined  to 
take  deepest  root,  there  was  a  new  generation  of  writers 
just  coming  to  manhood  whose  impressionable  childish 
years  had  been  spent  amid  the  stress  of  the  Civil  War  —  a 
war  fought  on  the  issue  between  the  centrifugal  tendency 
of  sectionalism  and  the  centripetal  force  of  national  unity. 
"States'  Rights"  against  "The  Union"  may  be  translated 
in  terms  of  literature  to  read  "Regionalism"  versus  "Amer- 
icanism"—  the  literature  of  the  restricted  locality  as  over 
against  the  literature  of  the  undifferentiated  nation  as  a 
whole.  Happily  the  two  opposing  literary  ideals  might  be 
pursued  peacefully  side  by  side.  Most  of  the  younger 
Southern  writers,  led  by  all  the  influences  of  their  heredity 


4  THE  SHORT  STORY 

and  environment,  joined  enthusiastically  in  the  region- 
alistic  movement,  and  strove  to  interpret  to  their  fellow- 
countrymen  the  rich  diversity  of  manners  and  traditions 
which  they  found  in  one  or  another  of  the  many  different 
divisions  of  the  South.  In  the  North  and  East,  naturally, 
the  opposite  ideal  predominated,  symbolized  by  the  numer- 
ous attempts  to  write  what  was  called  ''the  great  Ameri- 
can novel" ;  and  although  "the  great  American  novel"  so 
anxiously  expected  has  never  yet  appeared,  much  splendid 
work  conceived  in  the  broad  spirit  of  nationalism  has  been 
produced  by  such  masters  as  Howells,  James,  and  their 
followers.  But  the  spirit  of  regionalism  was  by  no  means 
absent  in  the  North.  Especially  in  New  England,  and  also 
a  little  later  in  several  parts  of  the  Middle  States,  there 
arose  vigorous  and  important  schools  of  local  colorists, 
whose  work  is  not  behind  that  done  in  any  other  part  of 
the  country. 

Regionalism  in  literature  is,  of  course,  not  confined  to 
America,  but  is  part  of  a  world-wide  movement  which  it 
is  not  the  province  of  this  introduction  to  discuss.  Nor 
is  it  by  any  means  confined  in  its  literary  expression  to  the 
short  story.  Although,  in  America  at  least,  it  has  scored 
its  greatest  triumphs  in  the  form  of  connected  series  of 
short  stories,  its  writers  have  not  infrequently  resorted  to 
the  novel  or  to  poetry.  All  in  all,  it  has  been  the  largest 
factor  in  American  literature  for  nearly  half  a  century. 
The  astonishing  outburst  of  local-color  writing  that  began 
in  1870,  and  has  continued  in  a  scarcely  diminishing  stream 
ever  since,  has  been  described  in  an  eloquent  paragraph  by 
Professor  Pattee,  who  was  the  first  to  provide  a  connected 
account  of  its  earlier  stages : 

"America,  shaken  from  narrow  sectionalism  and  con- 
templation of  Europe,  woke  up  and  discovered  America. 
In  a  kind  of  astonishment  she  wandered  from  section  to 
section  of  her  own  land,  discovering  everywhere  peoples 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  5 

and  manners  and  languages  that  were  as  strange  to  her 
even  as  foreign  lands.  Mark  Twain  and  Harte  and  Miller 
opened  to  view  the  wild  regions  and  wilder  society  of  early 
California  and  the  Sierra  Nevadas ;  Eggleston  pictured  the 
primitive  settlements  of  Indiana ;  Cable  told  the  romance 
of  the  Creoles  and  of  the  picturesque  descendants  of  the 
Acadians  on  the  bayous  of  Louisiana;  Page  and  Harris 
and  F.  H.  Smith  and  others  caught  a  vision  of  the  romance 
of  the  Old  South ;  Allen  told  of  Kentucky  life ;  Miss  French 
of  the  dwellers  in  the  canebrakes  of  Arkansas;  and  Miss 
Murfree  of  a  strange  people  in  the  Great  Smoky  Moun- 
tains of  Tennessee.  In  twenty  years  every  isolated  neigh- 
borhood in  America  had  had  its  chronicler  and  photog- 
rapher." * 


THE  "LITERARY  STATES"  OF  AMERICA 

To  understand  the  regionalistic  movement  in  America, 
the  study  of  American  literature  and  American  geography 
must  go  hand  in  hand.  Only  upon  a  map  may  the  peculiar 
character  and  the  interrelations  of  the  diverse  districts 
which  have  been  chosen  as  backgrounds  be  adequately 
appreciated.  Hence  a  map  of  the  principal  local-color 
regions  of  the  United  States  has  been  provided  as  frontis- 
piece to  the  present  volume. 

The  preparation  of  a  map  of  this  kind  involves  some 
difficult  problems,  and  the  results  here  presented  must  be 
considered  merely  as  tentative.  The  outlines  traced  by  the 
literary  geographer  must  often  disagree  with  the  familiar 
product  of  political  and  economic  map-making.  Official 
and  literary  boundaries  but  seldom  coincide;  the  United 
States  and  what  may  be  called  the  "Literary  States"  of 

1  Quoted  from  F.  L.  Pattee,  A  History  of  American  Literature  since  1870, 
p.  15. 


6  THE  SHORT  STORY 

America  differ  widely  in  their  demarcation.  Often  several 
political  States  must  be  joined  in  one  literary  region,  and 
again  one  State  must  be  divided  into  several  distinct  liter- 
ary domains.  Certain  sections  rated  as  comparatively  poor 
and  backward  are  rich  in  treasure  of  the  imagination  and 
overflowing  with  fictitious  inhabitants.  Others  that  figure 
prominently  in  the  census  reports  of  population  and  wealth 
must  be  left  blank  upon  our  literary  map,  or  inscribed  per- 
chance, as  the  old  cartographers  once  did,  "Here  be  deserts 
and  cannibals" ;  for  diligent  as  the  explorers  for  local  color 
have  been,  there  is  still  abundant  room  for  new  discoveries 
to  be  made  and  fresh  claims  to  be  staked  out. 

Such  regions,  unexplored  or  explored  but  unsuccessfully 
as  yet,  are  usually  found  on  the  borders  between  the  greater 
divisions  of  the  country ;  for  example,  Delaware  and  Mary- 
land between  the  Middle  States  and  the  South,  Ohio  be- 
tween the  East  and  the  Middle  West,  northern  Missouri 
between  South  and  Middle  West,  western  Nebraska  and 
the  Dakotas  between  Middle  West  and  West,  Oklahoma 
and  eastern  Texas  between  South  and  West.  These  States 
have  by  no  means  been  behind  the  others  in  producing 
notable  and  admirable  literature,  but,  probably  just  be- 
cause of  their  transitional  location,  they  have  as  yet  at- 
tracted but  little  attention  from  the  local  colorists.  For 
this  reason  a  wide  neutral  strip  has  been  indicated  on  the 
map  between  the  larger  divisions.  Within  these  five  main 
divisions  —  New  England,  the  East,  the  South,  the  Middle 
West,  and  the  West  —  we  have  found  room  for  twenty- 
five  smaller  divisions,  each  of  which  has  been  the  setting 
for  a  notable  school  of  local-color  writers.  These  may  ac- 
cordingly be  called  the  twenty-five  "Literary  States"  of 
America.  The  salient  characteristics  and  chief  representa- 
tives of  each  are  herewith  briefly  recounted,  r 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  7 

I.  NEW  ENGLAND 

MOST  of  New  England  must  be  taken  together  to  form  the 
first  of  our  "Literary  States" ;  for  little  discrimination  has 
been  made  by  local-color  writers  between  Maine  and 
Massachusetts,  New  Hampshire  and  Rhode  Island.  All 
share  alike  in  the  common  physical  background  of  bleak 
New  England  hills  and  rocky  farms,  the  unmistakable  New 
England  types  of  men  and  women,  and,  most  important  of 
all,  the  indelible  New  England  traditions.  To  this  uni- 
formity there  is  one  exception,  one  part  of  the  section 
which  has  a  distinct  and  notable  individuality  in  fiction 
and  which  must  hence  be  set  apart.  So  we  have 

I.  Old  New  England.  The  New  England  school  of  local 
colorists  begins  in  the  seventies.  The  galaxy  of  New  Eng- 
land writers  of  the  first  half  of  the  century  were  not  pri- 
marily local  colorists.  Although  every  one  of  them  was 
deeply  marked  with  the  inescapable  New  England  char- 
acteristics, they  were  universal  rather  than  local,  and  did 
not  have  the  essential  mark  of  the  regionalist,  for  they  did 
not  place  the  setting  foremost  in  their  work.  Of  them  all 
perhaps  James  Russell  Lowell  was  the  nearest  to  being  a 
genuine  regionalist  with  his  eternally  typical  New  Eng- 
lander  Hosea  Biglow.  Later  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  in 
her  Maine  novels,  anticipated  in  large  measure  the  ideals 
of  the  coming  school.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Stowe  has  some  claim 
to  be  considered  the  mother  of  American  regionalism,  just 
as  George  Eliot  was  the  mother  of  contemporary  English 
regionalism.  But  the  New  England  local-color  school 
proper  comprises  first  of  all  that  famous  group  of  short- 
story  writers,  all  women,  who  became  the  chroniclers  of 
what  has  been  called  the  New  England  decline  :  Elizabeth 
Stuart  Phelps,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  Rose  Terry 
Cooke,  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman,  and 
Alice  Brown;  to  whom  must  be  added  such  depicters  of 


8  THE  SHORT  STORY 

New  England  types  and  manners  as  Howells  with  his  many 
studies  of  Boston  life,  Rowland  E.  Robinson  with  his  Ver- 
mont sketches,  Winston  Churchill  for  his  fine  novel  Conis- 
ton,  Edith  Wharton,  Annie  Trumbull  Slosson,  Kate 
Douglas  Wiggin,  Dorothy  Canfield,  Holman  F.  Day, 
Edward  Arlington  Robinson,  and  Robert  Frost.  Of  them 
all  Mrs.  Freeman  stands  supreme ;  and  one  of  the  stories 
most  characteristic  of  her  quiet,  restrained,  consummate 
art,  "On  the  Walpole  Road,"  has  been  taken  for  the 
present  collection.  Another  New  England  story  by  Mrs. 
Slosson,  "A  Local  Colorist,"  has  also  been  included  for  its 
charmingly  humorous  exemplification  of  just  what  dialect 
and  local  color  are  and  how  to  find  them. 
.  2.  The  New  England  Coast.  Easily  distinguishable 
from  the  local  color  of  New  England  as  a  whole,  with  its 
age-long  traditions,  is  that  of  the  coast  strip  and  island 
region  with  the  adjacent  waters,  best  known  under  the 
names  of  Gloucester  or  Cape  Cod.  The  regionalism  of  the 
Coast  is  picturesque  rather  than  traditional,  and  centers 
about  the  life  and  customs  of  the  typical  New  England 
fisherman  and  sailor.  Its  best-known  exponents  are  Mrs. 
Sarah  Pratt  Greene,  author  of  Cape  Cod  Folks,  Joseph  C. 
Lincoln,  Norman  Duncan,  J.  B.  Connolly,  Peter  B.  Kyne, 
Joseph  Hergesheimer,  and,  for  one  masterpiece,  Rudyard 
Kipling  with  his  Captains  Courageous. 

II.  THE  EAST 

LIKE  New  England,  the  Eastern  States  proper,  New  York, 
Pennsylvania,  and  New  Jersey,  -belong  together  for  pur- 
poses of  local  color,  and  most  of  the  territory  of  these 
States  falls  into  a  single  literary  region,  which  I  have  ven- 
tured to  call  the  Middle  East.  But  the  section  also  contains 
four  clearly  demarcated  smaller  regions  which  must  be 
considered  separate  "Literary  States,"  making  five  in  alL 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  9 

3.  The  Middle  East.    Although  many  writers  have  laid 
their  stories  at  one  point  or  another  within  this  general 
region,  few  can  be  considered  primarily  local  colorists,  and 
even  these  have  applied  their  local  color  but  lightly.  Of 
the  number  Mrs.  Deland,  whose  Old  Chester  is  localized  in 
western  Pennsylvania,  is  easily  chief.     Westcott's  David 
Harum,  laid  in  middle  western  New  York,  and  the  New 
Jersey  stories  of  Hopkinson  Smith  and  Sewell  Ford  must 
not  pass  unmentioned. 

4.  Upper  New  York.    The  Adirondack  region  and  the 
rugged  frontier  country  of  mountain,  lake,  and  river  lying 
just  south  of  the  St.  Lawrence  and  east  of  Lake  Ontario 
constitutes  a  distinctly  separate  literary  district.  Its  char- 
acter is  determined  by  its  proximity  to  New  England  and 
to  French  Quebec,  but  most  of  all  by  its  wonderful  natural 
background.  Here  Mr.  Irving  Bacheller  reigns  supreme; 
but  the  earlier  Adirondack  stories  of  Philander  Deming 
are  too  good  to  be  forgotten. 

5.  New  York  City.    A  most  important  local-color  re- 
gion is  constituted  by  the  metropolis  and  its  environs, 
which  for  our  purposes  must  be  taken  to  include  the 
counties  on  both  sides  of  the  lower  Hudson  River  and  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  sacred  to  memories  of  Washington 
Irving.     Irving,  with  his  tales  and  sketches  of  the  old 
Dutch  traditions  and  colonial  types,  was  the  most  im- 
portant forerunner  of  the  whole  regionalistic  movement, 
although  his  work  must  be  regarded  rather  as  prophecy 
than  as  fulfillment.  The  large  and  influential  school  of 
writers  who  have  chosen  in  our  own  day  to  depict  the 
different  aspects  of  the  great  city  can  only  be  enumerated 
here.  First  come  those  who  have  tried  to  convey  its  spirit 
as  a  whole  —  Richard  Harding  Davis,  H.  C.  Bunner, 
Brander  Matthews,  O.  Henry,  Ernest  Poole,  and  many 
others;  then  those  who  have  restricted  themselves  to  a 
single  facet  of  its  multifarious  personality,  such  as  Edith 


10  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Wharton  and  Robert  W.  Chambers  for  New  York  "so- 
ciety " ;  Edwin  Lefevre  and  David  Graham  Phillips  for  the 
New  York  business  world ;  Stephen  Crane  and  Henry  Har- 
land  for  the  slums ;  Bruno  Lessing,  Montague  Glass,  and 
Fannie  Hurst  for  New  York  Hebrew  life ;  Myra  Kelly  for 
the  immigrant  school  children ;  and  many  another  chron- 
icler of  the  kaleidoscopic  life  of  what  not  so  long  ago 
O.  Henry  could  still  call  the  "Four  Million" — already 
become  the  Five  Million.  The  present  volume  has  found 
room  for  but  one  New  York  story,  a  most  inadequate 
allowance ;  our  selection,  as  perhaps  goes  without  saying, 
js  taken  from  O.  Henry. 

6.  Philadelphia.    The  Quaker  City  naturally  suffers  by 
comparison  with  its  mightier  rival.  Although  no  spot  in 
America  has  a  greater  wealth  of  tradition  or  more  indi- 
viduality of  character  to  attract  the  regionalist,  the  num- 
ber of  stories  of  Philadelphia  life  is  small.  But  their  quality 
has  been  high,  and  no  other  part  of  the  nation  has  had  a 
more  serious  and  enduring  presentation  of  its  social  herit- 
age than  Philadelphia  in  the  novels  of  Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell. 
Others  who  have  used  the  Philadelphia  background  for 
novels  or  short  stories  are  Thomas  A.  Janvier,  Rebecca 
Harding  Davis,  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady,  and  Paul  Lei- 
cester Ford. 

7.  The  Pennsylvania  Dutch.    The    counties  of  York 
and  Lancaster  and  the  adjacent  parts  of  southern  Penn- 
sylvania are  the  home  of  a  distinctive  population  of  Low- 
German  origin,  whose  picturesque  language  and  manners 
have  furnished  an  abundant  harvest  for  the  seeker  of  local 
color.  Two  women  have  almost  preempted  the  field  :  Mrs. 
Helen  R.  Martin,  who  writes  as  an  onlooker  and  with 
irresistible  humor  of  the  lighter  side  of  these  quaint  people ; 
and  Elsie  Singmaster,  who  is  one  of  the  folk  she  depicts, 
and  who  seeks  rather  to  portray  the  pathos  and  tragedy  of 
their  cramped  and  isolated  lives.  Sympathetic  pictures  of 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  11 

Pennsylvania  Dutch  life  are  given  also  by  Katharine 
Riegel  Loose  ("Georg  Schock")  and  Reginald  Wright 
Kauffman. 


III.  THE  SOUTH 

PASSING  across  the  border  States  of  Maryland  and  Dela- 
ware, we  come  to  that  division  of  America  which  has 
furnished  the  regionalist  with  a  larger  number  of  distinct 
and  strongly  individualized  districts  than  any  other. 
Comparatively  isolated  physically,  the  South  falls  natu- 
rally into  many  subdivisions  that  are  also  more  or  less  iso- 
lated from  each  other.  Foreign  immigration,  a  force  that 
has  made  mightily  for  uniformity  in  the  rest  of  the  coun- 
try, has  largely  passed  it  by.  Most  of  all,  its  deep-rooted 
ideals  of  local  independence  and  sectional  individuality, 
as  has  already  been  pointed  out,  have  reenforced  the  re- 
gional differences  and  caused  them  to  increase  with  the 
years.  As  a  result,  we  find  in  the  South  no  less  than  nine 
of  our  "Literary  States." 

8.  The  Old  Dominion.  Virginia,  the  eldest  in  the  sister- 
hood of  States,  and  the  soul  of  the  Southern  Confederacy, 
was  predestined  to  preeminence  in  that  sort  of  local  color 
of  which  the  main  ingredient  is  tradition.  The  cultivation 
of  Virginia  local  color  goes  back  to  the  ante-bellum  sketches 
of  D.  H.  Strother  and  E.  A.  Pollard,  and  the  glowing  his- 
torical novels  of  John  Esten  Cooke.  It  found  classic  ex- 
pression in  1884,  when  "Marse  Chan"  appeared,  the  first 
and  finest  of  a  memorable  series  of  stories  by  Thomas 
Nelson  Page.  Page's  vivid  pictures  of  Southern  social  in- 
heritance were  paralleled  by  the  more  delicate  but  equally 
authoritative  portrayal  of  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith,  one 
of  whose  story-sketches  from  the  famous  volume  Colonel 
Carter  of  Cartersville  has  been  chosen  for  inclusion  in 
this  collection.  Among  the  flourishing  school  of  later  Vir- 


12  THE  SHORT  STORY 

ginia  regionalists  may  be  mentioned  Armistead  C.  Gordon, 
perhaps  the  closest  in  spirit  to  Page  and  Smith,  with 
such  minor  story-tellers  as  Amelie  Rives,  Anna  Cogswell 
Wood,  Mary  Virginia  Terhune  ("Marion  Harland"),  and 
Molly  Elliot  Seawell ;  and  three  other  writers  of  greater 
significance,  who  have  struck  out  interesting  separate 
paths  for  themselves  —  Mary  Johnston,  Ellen  Glasgow, 
and  James  Branch  Cabell. 

9.  Appalachia.    Adjoining  Virginia  on  the  west  is  the 
great  mountain  section  of  the  South,  comprising  parts  of 
seven  States  —  Virginia,  West  Virginia,  and  Kentucky, 
Tennessee  and  North  Carolina,  Alabama  and  Georgia. 
Thrust  like  a  spear-head  right  into  the  heart  of  the  South, 
it  has  remained  the  most  isolated  part  of  America,  and  as 
a  natural  consequence  has  become  a  rich  field  for  the 
picturesque  regionalist.  Sidney  Lanier  was  the  first  to 
draw  the  mountaineer  as  a  type  in  fiction,  in  his  early 
novel  Tiger  Lilies.  The  mistress  of  the  domain  is  Mary  N. 
Murfree,  better  known  as  "Charles  Egbert  Craddock," 
whose  striking  early  story,  "Taking  the  Blue  Ribbon  at 
the  County  Fair,"  is  here  included.  Local-color  work  al- 
most as  good  has  been  done  by  John  Fox  on  the  Kentucky 
side  of  the  section,  by  Constance  Fenimore   Woolson, 
Sarah  Barnwell  Elliott,  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  Will  Allen 
Dromgoole,  and  a  recent  contributor  to  the  field,  Lucy 
Furman. 

10.  The  Blue  Grass.    Across  the  mountains  we  come  to 
the  rich  plateau  stretching  through  the  center  of  Kentucky 
and  Tennessee.  The  Blue  Grass  is  a  sort  of  transplanted 
Virginia,  with  much  the  same  aristocratic  pride  of  tradi- 
tion combined  with  an  unmistakable  individuality  of  its 
own.  In  this  kingdom  rules  James  Lane  Allen  as  story- 
writer,  and  with  him  John  Fox  and  the  two  Kentucky 
poets  Robert  Burns  Wilson  and  Madison  Cawein.  Mary 
Hartwell  Catherwood  has  laid  one  or  two  of  her  stories  in 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  13 

Kentucky.  Here,  too,  belongs  in  spirit  the  work  of  Amer- 
ica's most  inspired  song-writer  and  musician,  Stephen 
Collins  Foster.  One  of  O.  Henry's  best  stories,  "A  Muni- 
cipal Report,"  a  fine  picture  of  the  spirit  of  the  section  as 
localized  in  the  Tennessee  hah*  at  Nashville,  has  been 
included  in  this  volume.  The  latest  story-writer  to  depict 
Kentucky  life  is  Irvin  S.  Cobb. 

11.  The  Middle  South.     Passing  southward  from  Vir- 
ginia we  come  to  the  Carolinas,  for  which  I  have  ventured 
to  coin  a  new  title.  Like  most  middle  sections,  it  has  at- 
tracted few  local  colorists.  The  work  of  William  Gilmore 
Simms  lies  before  our  movement.  The  North  Carolina 
Sketches  of  Mary  N.  Carter  and  the  novels  of  Thomas 
Dixon  are  nearly  all  that  deserve  mention. 

12.  The  Lower  South.     With  the  lower  tier  of  States 
running  from  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  through  Geor- 
gia, Alabama,  and  Mississippi,  we  come  to  one  of  the  most 
important  fields  of  American  local-color  work.  This  is  the 
Black  Belt,  where  the  negro  outnumbers  the  white  man, 
and  cotton  rules  supreme.  The    main  elements  of  the 
population  from  the  writer's  point  of  view  are  the  negro, 
the  "cracker"  or  poor  white,  and  the  planter  or  aristocrat. 
Each  of  these  has  had  its  story-writer  and  poet.  The  fore- 
runners of  the  school  were  Longstreet,  Baldwin,  and  Jack- 
son before  the  Civil  War,  and  Sidney  Lanier  and  Richard 
Malcolm  Johnston  just  after  it.  With  the  eighties  came 
Joel   Chandler  Harris,  unsurpassed  in  his  presentation 
both  of  the  negro  and  the  cracker  types ;  Harry  Stillwell 
Edwards,  for  the  planter  and  the  negro;  and  Will  N. 
Harben,  whose  North  Georgia  Sketches  gave  the  most  faith- 
ful pictures  yet  drawn  of  the  poor  whites.  Others  worthy 
of  mention  are  Owen  WTister,  for  his  masterly  drawing  of 
aristocratic    Charleston    in    his    novel    Lady   Baltimore; 
Corra  Harris,  chronicler  of  life  in  the  small  Southern  town ; 
Frank  Stanton,  the  best  living  writer  of  negro  dialect 


14  THE  SHORT  STORY 

poetry ;  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson,  Augusta  Jane  Wil- 
son, Samuel  Minturn  Peck,  Maurice  Thompson,  Paul 
Laurence  Dunbar,  and  latest  of  all  Octavus  Roy  Cohen. 
The  story  selected  from  this  section  is  a  sympathetic  pic- 
ture of  the  relations  between  master  and  slave,  by  Maurice 
Thompson. 

13.  The  Swamp  Region.    Southern  Georgia  and  Ala- 
bama is  a  submerged  land  of  marshes  and  swamps,  and 
the  great  swamp  continues  south  till  it  covers  the  larger 
part  of  Florida.  Here  the  physical  surroundings  dominate 
the  life  of  the  inhabitants ;  and  most  writers  who  have 
chosen  it  as  a  background  have  emphasized  the  overpow- 
ering presence  of  the  swamp,  from  Sidney  Lanier  in  his 
beautiful  poem  "The  Marshes  of   Glynn"  to  Captain 
Greene  in  his  weird  and  powerful  story  "The  Cat  of  the 
Canebrakes."  Here  also  belong  the  coast  and  coastal 
islands   of   South   Carolina  and  Georgia,  with  a  special 
type  of  negro  depicted  in  some  of  the  stories  of  Harris 
and  John  Bennett. 

14.  The  Creole  Country.    The  delta  of  the  Mississippi 
River  offers  a  region  with  perhaps  the  most  nearly  unique 
background,  in  its  types,  its  traditions,  and  its  natural 
characteristics,  in  America.  The  pure-blooded  French  and 
Spanish  people  of  lower  Louisiana  have  produced  a  civili- 
zation quite  unlike  anything  else  that  America  can  show, 
and  a  brilliant  group  of  writers  have  taken  advantage  of 
its  rich  materials.  Some  of  them,  such  as  Charles  Gayarr6 
and  Alcee  Fortier,  have  written  in  their  native  French  and 
naturally  have  had  few  readers  save  among  their  own 
people.  The  best-known  outside  the  section  is  undoubtedly 
George  W.  Cable,  although  in  the  opinion  of  many  critics 
his  work  is  surpassed  in  fidelity  and  truth  by  that  of  two 
women  story-tellers  of  Louisiana,  Grace  Elizabeth  King 
and  Kate  Chopin.  One  of  Mrs.  Chopin's  Bayou   Tales, 
"At  the  'Cadian  Ball,"  has  been  chosen  to  represent  the 
section. 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  15 

Some  of  the  best  stories  of  Louisiana  are  found  among 
the  works  of  Lafcadio  Hearn  and  O.  Henry. 

15.  The  River  Country.  Passing  up  the  Mississippi  till 
we  come  to  Anglo-Saxon  territory,  we  reach  the  section 
dominated  by  the  romance  and  beauty  of  the  great  river. 
The  chief  name  here  that  comes  to  mind  is,  of  course,  Mark 
Twain's;  others  are  Irwin  Russell,  first  master  of  negro 
dialect  verse ;  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart,  whose  stories  perhaps 
belong  here  rather  than  in  lower  Louisiana ;  John  Hay,  in 
some  of  the  Pike  County  Ballads;  and  among  a  host  of  later 
story-tellers  Norman  Duncan  and  Elmore  Elliott  Peake. 

16.  Canebrakes  and  Ozarks.  The  last  of  the  Southern 
regions  is  made  up  of  the  swamp  country  of  Arkansas  and 
the  isolated  mountain  valleys  of  southern  Missouri.  Just 
as  the  Blue  Grass  is  a  sort  of  transplanted,  Virginia,  so  the 
Ozarks  are,  as  it  were,  a  reduced  edition  of  Appalachia, 
and  the  Canebrakes  people  resemble  in  many  ways  the 
crackers  and  poor  whites  of  piedmont  Georgia  and  the 
Carolinas.  The  most  notable  depicter  of  the  section  in 
fiction  is  beyond  doubt  Alice  French,  better  known  as 
"Octave  Thanet."  A  faithful  study  of  life  in  southern 
Missouri  is  given  by  Homer  Croy  in  his  recent  novel 
Boone  Stop.  The  section,  moreover,  has  suffered  many 
things  at  the  hands  of  such  writers  as  Opie  Read  and 
Harold  Bell  Wright. 

IV.  THE  MIDDLE  WEST 

THE  boundaries  of  the  Middle  West  are  less  fixed  than  in 
the  East  and  South,  and  its  subdivisions  are  less  distinct. 
But  there  are  four  fairly  well-marked  regions  that  belong 
here. 

17.  The  Corn  Belt.   The   characteristic  physical  fea- 
tures of  the  southern  half  of  the  Middle  West  are,  on  the 
one  hand,  the  great  prairie  beginning  in  western  Ohio  and 


16  THE  SHORT  STORY 

running   through    Indiana,   Illinois,   northern  Missouri, 
southern  Iowa,  and  eastern  Kansas  and  Nebraska,  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  omnipresent  staple  crop  of  Indian 
corn.  With  respect  to  its  population  it  is  chiefly  marked 
by  the  absence  of  any  one  predominant  element  such  as 
is  found  in  every  other  section  of  America.  Made  up"of 
New  Englanders,  Easterners,  Southerners,  Germans,  Irish, 
mountaineers,  and  negroes  in  nearly  equal  proportions,  it 
is  really  a  kind  of  microcosm  of  the  country,  a  United 
States  in  miniature,  the  combined  and  evenly  blended 
center  and  heart  of  the  nation.  The  chief  writers  who  have 
tried  to  express  its  spirit  have  been,  first,  the  pioneers 
Edward  Eggleston  and  Mark  Twain,  with  whom  are  asso- 
ciated Joseph  Kirkland,  E.   F.  Howe,  and  John  Hay, 
authors  respectively  of  Zury,  The  Story  of  a  Country  Towny 
and  Pike  County  Ballads;  secondly,  the  representatives  of 
the  period  of  rapid  growth  and  increasing  wealth,  com- 
fortable, complacent,  optimistic,  and  usually  sentimental 
—  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  Will  Carleton,  Eugene  Field, 
Maurice  Thompson,  Booth  Tarkington,  Meredith  Nichol- 
son, Alice  Hegan  Rice,  Margaret  Hill  McCarter,  Eugene 
Ware,  Walt  Mason;  thirdly,  the  younger  generation  of 
writers  through  whom  to-day  the  new  spirit  of  unrest, 
social  questioning,  and  truth-seeking  is  busily  asserting 
itself  —  Theodore   Dreiser,    Floyd   Dell,   and   Sherwood 
Anderson  with  their  searching  tales  and  novels  of  mid- 
western  life,  and  the  two  poets  laureate  of  the  Middle 
West,  Edgar  Lee  Masters  and  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay. 
But  it  is  in  the  work  of  William  Allen  White,  who  can 
scarcely  be  identified  with  any  one  of  these  three  suc- 
cessive groups,  but  who  shares  something  in  spirit  with 
each  of  them,  that  we  have  found  the  story  which,  for  the 
purposes  of  this  collection,  seems  most  adequately  to 
represent  the  section. 
18.  The  Wheat  Belt.     The  northern  part  of  the  Middle 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  17 

West  is  hard  to  mark  off  from  the  southern,  and  there  is  a 
wide  variable  strip  that  may  be  included  in  either.  But  the 
two  divisions  are  distinct  in  spirit  and  temper.  The  differ- 
ence in  the  chief  crop  has  perhaps  a  closer  relation  to 
literature  than  has  always  been  realized ;  for  the  literature 
of  a  region  is,  after  all,  merely  one  of  its  crops.  There  is 
also  a  decided  difference  in  the  proportionate  ingredients 
of  the  population.  The  Wheat  Belt  was  mainly  settled 
from  New  England,  whereas  the  Corn  Belt  has  only  a 
minority  of  New  Englanders,  and  a  much  stronger  infusion 
of  Southern  blood  and  influence.  Both  sections  have  very 
large  German  elements,  but  the  Wheat  Belt  has  also  a 
great  mass  of  Scandinavian  immigration  that  is  not  found 
elsewhere.  In  literature  the  Corn  Belt  has  expressed  itself 
mainly  in  the  novel  and  in  poetry,  with  few  notable  short 
stories ;  the  Wheat  Belt,  on  the  other  hand,  has  one  short- 
story  writer,  Hamlin  Garland,  who  ranks  among  the  very 
best  that  America  has  produced.  One  of  his  most  typical 
pictures  of  the  region,  from  the  volume  entitled  Main- 
Traveled  Roads,  has  been  chosen  for  this  collection.  Be- 
sides Garland  there  should  be  mentioned  Frank  Norris's 
epic  trilogy  of  the  wheat,  Willa  Gather's  fine  Nebraska 
novels,  and  the  recent  astonishing  outburst  of  small-town 
stories  by  Zona  Gale,  Mary  S.  Watts,  Rupert  Hughes,  and 
Sinclair  Lewis. 

19.  Chicago.  Chicago  is  the  center  of  the  entire  Middle 
West,  and  binds  together  its'  divisions  into  a  real  unity. 
The  great  city  has  developed  a  genuine  individuality,  and 
a  large  and  flourishing  school  of  writers  have  sought  to 
express  it  in  fiction  and  poetry.  Among  them  are  the 
novelists  Henry  B.  Fuller  and  Frank  Norris,  Joseph 
Medill  Patterson  and  Upton  Sinclair,  Robert  Herrick, 
William  Payne,  and  Theodore  Dreiser;  the  humorists 
and  short-story  writers  George  Ade,  Finley  Peter  Dunne, 
and  Edith  Wyatt;  and  the  poet  Carl  Sandburg. 


18  THE  SHORT  STORY 

20.  Mackinac.    In  the  northern  woods    of    Upper 
Michigan,  Wisconsin,  and  Minnesota,  we  come  upon  an- 
other distinctive  section,  with  strongly  marked  physical 
features,  and  also  with  rich  and  romantic  traditions  run- 
ning back  to  the  old  French  days.     This  region  was  first 
explored  for  literature  by  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson 
in  the  brilliant  volume  which  she  entitled  Castle  Nowhere. 
Miss  Woolson  was  followed  by  one  of  our  best  American 
story-tellers,  whose  work  has  been  unjustifiably  neglected 
—  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood.  One  of  Mrs.  Catherwood's 
most  effective  stories,  "The  Windigo,"  is  included  in  this 
volume.  Others   who   have   followed   the   lead   of   Mrs. 
Catherwood  in  recalling  French  memories  from  the  frontier 
days  are  Maurice  Thompson  in  his  novel  Alice  of  Old 
Vincennes,  and  Gilbert  Parker  with  his  vivid  historical 
romances.  More  recent  are  the  lumber  stories  of  Stewart 
Edward  White  and  Gene  Stratton  Porter. 

V.  THE  WEST 

IN  the  West,  naturally  enough,  the  literary  sections  are 
much  larger  and  much  less  perfectly  demarcated  than  in 
any  of  the  other  main  divisions.  But  it  is  possible  to  dis- 
tinguish five  regions. 

21.  The  Cattle  Country.    The  real  West  begins  at  the 
line,  approximating  the  hundredth  parallel  of  longitude, 
where  the  rainfall  becomes  insufficient  for  ordinary  agri- 
cultural operations.   Stretching  thence  to  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, and  running  all  the  way  from  northern  Montana 
and  Idaho  to  Texas  and  Arizona,  are  the  Great  Plains, 
identified  for  literary  purposes  almost  exclusively  with  the 
cattle  industry  and  the  cowboy.  A  host  of  writers  have 
tried  to  write  cowboy  stories,  among  whom  Owen  Wister 
is  easily  chief.   O.  Henry,  in  his  volume  The  Heart  of  the 
West,  has  some  splendid  cowboy  tales.  Other  writers  who 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  19 

have  known  and  described  the  genuine  cowboy  are  Caro- 
line Lockhart,  Stewart  Edward  White,  Theodore  Roose- 
velt, Vincent  Fortune,  Emerson  Hough,  Zane  Grey,  and 
Alfred  Henry  Lewis.  Before  the  cowboy  was  the  fur- 
trader;  and  the  epic  of  the  early  Western  fur-trade  and 
the  exploring  expeditions  up  the  Missouri  River  has  re- 
cently been  made  to  live  again  in  the  stirring  narrative 
poems  of  John  G.  Neihardt.  In  this  section,  too,  at  its 
southwestern  extremity,  is  laid  the  scene  of  the  first  half  of 
William  Vaughn  Moody's  The  Great  Divide,  the  best  ex- 
ample yet  produced  of  local  color  in  the  American  drama. 

22.  The  Mountain  West.     In  this  region  the  whole 
American  local-color  movement  began,  with  Bret  Harte's 
stories  of  the  "Forty-Niners."    Harte's  "The  Luck  of 
Roaring  Camp,"  the  appearance  of  which  in  1870  ushered 
in  the  movement,  has  been  selected  as  likewise  the  opening 
story  of  the  present  volume.   Contemporary  with  Harte's 
stories  were  the  glowing   Western  lyrics  and  narrative 
poems  of  Joaquin  Miller.    But  since  the  passing  of  these 
two  giants  of  the  movement,  the  Mountain  West  has  been 
comparatively  neglected.    An  occasional  story  by  Owen 
Wister  or  Miss  Atherton  is  laid  somewhere  in  the  Rockies. 
Just  recently  there  have  been  some  good  stories  of  Oregon 
and  Washington  by  Alfred  Henry  Lewis  and  Peter  B. 
Kyne. 

23.  The  Arid  West.  The  region  which  used  to  be  called 
the  Great  American  Desert,  and  for  which  Mr.  Lindsay  has 
recently  suggested  the  name  of  New  Arabia,  has  attracted 
many  writers.    Among  them  are  Mary  Hallock  Foote, 
with  her  stories  of  army  life;  Stewart  Edward  White,  with 
his  Arizona  tales;  James  Weber  Linn,  with  one  almost 
perfect  story,  "The  Girl  at  Duke's"  (included  herein); 
Thomas  A.   Janvier,   Eugene  Manlove  Rhodes,   B.   M. 
Bower,  George  Pattullo,  and  Mary  Austin. 

24.  California  and  the  Old  West.    We  do  not  always 


20  THE  SHORT  STORY . 

realize  that  one  of  the  oldest  parts  of  our  country  in  point 
of  settlement,  almost  as  old  as  Virginia  or  Massachusetts, 
is  California.  The  old  Spanish  missions  and  the  long  and 
romantic  story  of  Spanish  civilization  have  furnished  rich 
material  for  stories  of  traditional  regionalism,  and  natu- 
rally a  very  large  school  of  writers  has  been  attracted.  Be- 
ginning with  Bret  Harte  in  his  novel  Gabriel  Conroy,  we 
must  mention  Helen  Hunt  Jackson's  Ramona,  and  many 
stories  of  Frank  Norris,  Ambrose  Bierce,  Grace  McFar- 
land,  Stewart  Edward  White,  Owen  Wister,  Jack  London, 
and  Gertrude  Atherton.  One  of  the  best  of  Miss  Ather- 
ton's  stories,  from  her  volume  entitled  The  Splendid  Idle 
Forties,  has  been  chosen  to  illustrate  this  section. 

25.  Alaska.  Alaska  is  our  last  frontier,  and  the  Klon- 
diker  is  the  last  figure  to  take  his  place  in  the  gallery  of 
picturesque  American  types.  The  chief  name  to  conjure 
with  here  is,  of  course,  Jack  London,  whose  typical  North- 
ern story,  "Love  of  Life,"  has  been  taken  to  represent  the 
region.  Better  even  than  London's  virile  tales  is  the  stir- 
ring but  too  little  known  novel  of  Elizabeth  Robins  en- 
titled The  Magnetic  North.  On  a  lower  level  are  the  Arctic 
stories  of  Rex  Beach ;  and  finally,  not  to  be  omitted  is  the 
vigorous  and  manly  poetry  of  Robert  W.  Service. 

nr 

STAGES  OF  THE  LOCAL-COLOR  MOVEMENT 

THE  foregoing  survey  of  American  local-color  literature  has 
been  geographical  rather  than  chronological,  and  fails  to 
reveal  one  of  its  most  striking  characteristics ;  that  is,  the 
orderly  and  progressive  way  it  has  grown  and  developed. 
It  remains  to  give  a  brief  outline  of  the  main  stages 
through  which  the  movement  has  passed. 

If  we  analyze  the  task  of  the  local-color  writer  who  de- 
sires to  interpret  the  life  and  spirit  of  any  particular  region, 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  21 

we  shall  find  that  there  are  just  three  factors  that  combine 
to  make  up  and  explain  its  special  individuality.  These 
are,  first,  the  people,  or  racial  stock ;  second,  the  history 
and  resultant  traditions  that  they  brought  with  them  or 
wrought  out  there  for  themselves ;  and,  third,  the  land,  the 
physical  and  natural  background  of  the  region  itself. 
These  three  fundamental  elements  may  be  drawn  upon  in 
varying  proportions.  Now  one  of  them,  and  now  another, 
is  more  prominent,  or  appeals  more  insistently  to  the  story- 
teller. The  first  element,  the  people  themselves,  with  their 
picturesque  peculiarities  of  manners  or  speech  or  types  of 
character,  is  the  most  obvious  of  the  three,  and  the  one 
that  most  naturally  impresses  an  observer  from  the  out- 
side. The  second,  the  traditions  and  principles  or  stand- 
ards of  conduct  handed  down  from  the  past,  goes  deeper, 
and  for  that  very  reason  commonly  escapes  the  attention 
of  the  outsider  and  requires  the  inborn  understanding  and 
sympathy  of  a  native.  The  third,  the  silent  influence  of 
natural  surroundings,  is  the  subtlest  and  least  tangible 
of  the  three  factors ;  it  demands  an  interpreter  capable  of 
judgment  and  reflection,  and  able  to  weigh  the  hidden 
springs  of  social  action. 

Now  when  we  compare  writers  and  dates,  we  find  that 
the  whole  local-color  movement  falls  into  four  distin- 
guishable stages,  according  as  it  came  to  emphasize  each 
of  these  three  elements  in  turn,  and  finally  to  combine 
them  into  a  real  unity. 

First  came  the  local  colorists  who  are  primarily  inter- 
ested in  the  people  of  their  sections.  Their  productions 
we  may  call  stories  of  American  Types.  These  writers  are 
the  Picturesque  Regionalists,  who  strive  to  bring  out  all 
that  is  quaint,  humorous,  or  pathetic  in  the  customs,  dia- 
lect, and  character  of  the  inhabitants.  The  essential  thing 
about  this  first  form  of  local  color  is  that  it  invariably  arises 
in  what  may  be  called  frontier  sections.  It  is  the  expression 


fg  THE  SHORT  STORY 

in  American  literature  of  that  Spirit  of  the  Frontier  so  bril- 
liantly studied  in  the  historical  essays  of  Professor  Turner : 
"That  coarseness  and  strength  combined  with  acuteness 
and  inquisitiveness ;  that  practical,  inventive  turn  of  mind, 
quick  to  find  expedients ;  that  masterful  grasp  of  material 
things,  lacking  in  the  artistic,  but  powerful  to  effect  great 
ends;  that  restless,  nervous  energy;  that  dominant  indi- 
vidualism, working  for  good  and  for  evil ;  and  withal  that 
buoyancy  and  exuberance  which  comes  with  freedom  — 
these  are  the  traits  of  the  frontier."  l  Here  we  must  place 
Harte  with  his  "  Forty-Niners,"  Eggleston  with  his  circuit- 
riders,  Garland  with  his  homesteaders,  Wister  with  his 
cowboys,  London  with  his  Klondikers,  and  also  —  for  we 
must  not  forget  that,  as  Professor  Turner  has  showed  us, 
the  frontier  has  a  social  as  well  as  a  geographical  sense  — 
Miss  Murfree  with  her  mountaineers,  Mrs.  Martin  with  her 
Pennsylvania  Dutch,  and  Harris  and  Thompson  with  their 
negroes  and  crackers.  The  stories  of  this  class  began  to  ap- 
pear in  the  seventies,  though  they  have  never  ceased  to  be 
written  as  new  frontiers  with  picturesque  new  types  have 
been  discovered,  or  as  writers  with  an  eye  primarily  for  the 
picturesque  have  arisen  in  the  older  sections. 

With  the  eighties,  however,  came  stories  with  a  shift  of 
emphasis.  The  local  color  of  picturesque  frontier  life  was 
joined  by  the  local  color  of  Social  Heritage  —  the  sort  of 
local  color  that  depends  rather  upon  traditions  and  history. 
Naturally  this  variety  flourished  only  in  older  sections  with 
a  sufficiently  rich  historical  background  —  such  sections  as 
the  Virginia  of  Thomas  Nelson  Page ;  the  Louisiana  of  Mr. 
Cable,  Miss  King,  and  Mrs.  Chopin ;  the  New  England  of 
Miss  Wilkins,  Miss  Jewett,  and  Miss  Brown ;  or  in  Ken- 
tucky, northern  Michigan  with  its  French  memories,  or 
southern  California  with  its  recollections  of  old  Spanish 
life.  Of  course,  any  one  of  these  sections  might  harbor  the 
1 F.  J.  Turner,  The  Significance  of  the  Frontier  in  American  History.  \ 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA  23 

Traditional  and  the  Picturesque  Regionalist  side  by  side : 
for  example,  Miss  Wilkins  and  Rowland  E.  Robinson  in 
New  England,  or  Mrs.  Catherwood  and  Stewart  Edward 
White  in  the  Northern  Woods. 

With  the  nineties,  again,  we  find  first  appearing  the  local 
color  that  lays  chief  emphasis  on  the  landscape  —  the  local 
color  of  Natural  Background.  Such  stories  are  obviously 
best  suited  to  sections  where  nature  is  particularly  attrac- 
tive, dangerous,  or  overwhelming,  such  as  the  bayous  of 
Louisiana  or  the  Northern  woods,  the  Southern  swamps, 
Western  deserts,  or  Alaskan  icefields.  Thus  we  have  the 
work  of  Hearn  in  Louisiana,  in  such  a  story  as  Chita;  or  of 
Mrs.  Catherwood  about  Mackinac,  Greene  in  the  Alabama 
canebrakes,  Linn  in  the  arid  Western  region,  or  London  in 
the  frozen  North. 

The  peculiarity  of  these  stories  is  not  merely  that  they 
have  excellent  descriptions  of  nature.  Miss  Murfree's 
mountain  stories,  which  certainly  belong  rather  to  the 
picturesque  division  of  the  movement,  are  full  of  detached 
descriptions  of  mountain  scenery;  and  indeed,  a  story 
might  contain  much  skillful  description  without  being  a 
local-color  story  at  all.  But  these  stories  go  further :  they 
make  the  natural  background  so  pervasive  and  compelling 
in  its  influence  as  in  a  sense  to  become  the  chief  character 
of  the  story,  while  the  human  characters  in  comparison  be- 
come merely  a  kind  of  scenery.  In  a  word,  they  repeat  the 
perfect  integration  of  actors  and  environment  achieved  by 
Thomas  Hardy  in  such  a  masterpiece  as  his  Return  of  the 
Native,  and  doubtless  owe  much  to  Hardy's  example.  They 
have  vindicated  for  themselves  the  privilege  demanded  by 
Hardy's  disciple  Eden  Phillpotts  :  "  To  me  the  phenomena 
of  man's  environment  are  as  interesting  as  man  himself.  . . . 
If  I  deem  a  forest  or  river,  a  wild  space,  a  hilltop,  or  the 
changing  apparitions  of  inanimate  nature  as  vital  as  the 
adventures  of  men  and  women,  and  as  much  a  part  of  the 


24  THE  SHORT  STORY 

material  which  I  handle,  then  to  these  things  must  be 
apportioned  the  significance  I  desire  for  them.  If  I  choose 
to  make  a  river  a  protagonist,  or  lift  a  forest,  in  its  unknow- 
able attributes,  into  a  presence  more  portentous  than  the 
human  beings  who  move  within  it,  none  has  the  right  to 
deny  me ....  On  yet  a  wider  wing  we  may  seek  for  our 
heroes  and  heroines;  we  may  incarnate  the  seasons  and 
set  them  moving,  mighty  and  magic-fingered,  upon  the  face 
of  the  earth,  to  tell  a  story  laden  with  unsleeping  activities, 
mysterious  negations  and  frustrations,  battles  and  plots, 
tragedies  and  triumphs.  Before  such  an  immense  spectacle 
man's  exact  significance  in  the  warp  and  woof  will  be  found 
to  change ;  his  thread  becomes  relegated  to  its  fair  place  in 
the  loom,  and  we  discover  mightier  stories  than  his  hugely 
outlined  on  the  tapestries  that  hang  between  the  stars."1 
Finally,  and  not  until  after  1900,  there  appears  a  blend- 
ing of  the  three  elements ;  and  we  have  stories  of  American 
Communities,  or  the  local  color  of  Communal  Conscious- 
ness. In  these  stories  the  spirit  of  the  community  is  the  real 
essence  of  the  tale.  The  characters  become  the  background, 
while  the  social  unit  in  which  they  live  takes  on  a  person- 
ality determined  alike  by  its  people,  its  traditions,  and  its 
natural  surroundings,  moves  into  the  foreground,  and  be- 
comes the  active  hero.  The  most  consummate  examples  of 
this  sort  of  fiction  are  perhaps  such  novels  as  The  Mayor  of 
Casterbridge  by  Thomas  Hardy,  or  Widecombe  Fair  by 
Eden  Phillpotts,  which  attempts,  in  its  author's  phrase, 
"to  view  a  village  at  a  stroke" ;  but  inspired  by  the  same 
spirit  are  many  American  stories  by  such  writers  as  Frank 
Norris,  Margaret  Deland,  Ellen  Glasgow,  Willa  Gather, 
William  Allen  White,  and  O.  Henry ;  it  breathes  likewise 
through  the  poetry  of  Edgar  Lee  Masters  and  Robert 
Frost ;  and  in  the  "Gospel  of  Beauty"  of  Nicholas  Vachel 
Lindsay  it  even  becomes  a  sort  of  prophetic  message : 
1  From  the  "Foreword"  to  Widecombe  Fair. 


AS  INTERPRETER  OF  AMERICA 

"Let  not  our  town  be  large,  remembering 
That  little  Athens  was  the  Muses'  home, 
That  Oxford  rules  the  heart  of  London  still. 
That  Florence  gave  the  Renaissance  to  Rome. 
Record  it  for  the  grandson  of  your  son  — 
A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day : 
Our  little  town  cannot  complete  her  soul 
Till  countless  generations  pass  away. 
Now  let  each  child  be  joined  as  to  a  church 
To  her  perpetual  hopes,  each  man  ordained : 
Let  every  street  be  made  a  reverent  aisle 
Where  Music  grows  and  Beauty  is  unchained.** J 

1  From  On  the  Building  of  Springfield.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that  the 
fourfold  classification  outlined  above  is  not  meant  to  be  a  hard-and-fast 
one.  Many  stories  are  on  the  border-line  between  two  or  more  groups, 
and  often  we  may  find  writers  from  all  four  groups  side  by  side  in  a  single 
section.  But  provided  that  the  groups  are  understood  as  depending  on 
relative  emphasis  rather  than  as  rigidly  exclusive,  they  do  correspond  to 
actual  stages  that  may  be  discerned  in  the  development  of  the  American 
regionalistic  movement.  As  such,  the  scheme  has  been  followed  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  present  volume. 


AMERICAN  TYPES 
STORIES  OF  THE  FRONTIER 


He  weren't  no  saint  —  them  engineer! 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike, — 
One  wife  in  Natchearunder-the-Eitt 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike; 
A  Jceerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jimr 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row, 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied,— 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

JOHN  HAY,  Pike  County  Ballads 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP* 

BY  BRET  HARTE 

THERE  was  commotion  in  Roaring  Camp.  It  could  not 
have  been  a  fight,  for  in  1850  that  was  not  novel  enough  to 
have  called  together  the  entire  settlement.  The  ditches  and 
claims  were  not  only  deserted,  but  "Tuttle's  grocery"  had 
contributed  its  gamblers,  who,  it  will  be  remembered, 
calmly  continued  their  game  the  day  that  French  Pete  and 
Kanaka  Joe  shot  each  other  to  death  over  the  bar  in  the 
front  room.  The  whole  camp  was  collected  before  a  rude 
cabin  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  clearing.  Conversation  was 
carried  on  in  a  low  tone,  but  the  name  of  a  woman  was 
frequently  repeated.  It  was  a  name  familiar  enough  in 
the  camp — "Cherokee  Sal." 

Perhaps  the  less  said  of  her  the  better.  She  was  a  coarse 
and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  a  very  sinful  woman.  But  at  that 
time  she  was  the  only  woman  in  Roaring  Camp,  and  was 
just  then  lying  in  sore  extremity,  when  she  most  needed  the 
ministration  of  her  own  sex.  Dissolute,  abandoned,  and 
irreclaimable,  she  was  yet  suffering  a  martyrdom  hard 
enough  to  bear  even  when  veiled  by  sympathizing  woman- 
hood, but  now  terrible  in  her  loneliness.  The  primal  curse 
had  come  to  her  in  that  original  isolation  which  must  have 
made  the  punishment  of  the  first  transgression  so  dreadful. 
It  was,  perhaps,  part  of  the  expiation  of  her  sin  that,  at  a 
moment  when  she  most  lacked  her  sex's  intuitive  tender- 
ness and  care,  she  met  only  the  half -contemptuous  faces  of 
her  masculine  associates.  Yet  a  few  of  the  spectators  were, 
I  think,  touched  by  her  sufferings.  Sandy  Tipton  thought 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  and  Other 
Stones  by  Bret  Harte.  Copyright  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


80  AMERICAN  TYPES 

it  was  "rough  on  Sal,"  and,  in  the  contemplation  of  her 
condition,  for  a  moment  rose  superior  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  an  ace  and  two  bowers  in  his  sleeve. 

It  will  be  seen  also  that  the  situation  was  novel.  Deaths 
were  by  no  means  uncommon  in  Roaring  Camp,  but  a  birth 
was  a  new  thing.  People  had  been  dismissed  the  camp 
effectively,  finally,  and  with  no  possibility  of  return ;  but 
this  was  the  first  time  that  anybody  had  been  introduced 
ab  initio.  Hence  the  excitement. 

"You  go  in  there,  Stumpy,"  said  a  prominent  citizen 
known  as  "  Kentuck,"  addressing  one  of  the  loungers.  "  Go 
in  there,  and  see  what  you  kin  do.  You've  had  experience 
in  them  things." 

Perhaps  there  was  a  fitness  in  the  selection.  Stumpy,  in 
other  climes,  had  been  the  putative  head  of  two  families ; 
in  fact,  it  was  owing  to  some  legal  informality  in  these  pro- 
ceedings that  Roaring  Camp  —  a  city  of  refuge  —  was  in- 
debted to  his  company.  The  crowd  approved  the  choice, 
and  Stumpy  was  wise  enough  to  bow  to  the  majority.  The 
door  closed  on  the  extempore  surgeon  and  midwife,  and 
Roaring  Camp  sat  down  outside,  smoked  its  pipe,  and 
awaited  the  issue. 

The  assemblage  numbered  about  a  hundred  men.  One 
or  two  of  these  were  actual  fugitives  from  justice,  some  were 
criminal,  and  all  were  reckless.  Physically  they  exhibited 
no  indication  of  their  past  lives  and  character.  The  great- 
est scamp  had  a  Raphael  face,  with  a  profusion  of  blond 
hair ;  Oakhurst,  a  gambler,  had  the  melancholy  air  and  in- 
tellectual abstraction  of  a  Hamlet;  the  coolest  and  most 
courageous  man  was  scarcely  over  five  feet  in  height,  with 
a  soft  voice  and  an  embarrassed,  timid  manner.  The  term 
"roughs"  applied  to  them  was  a  distinction  rather  than  a 
definition.  Perhaps  in  the  minor  details  of  fingers,  toes, 
ears,  etc.,  the  camp  may  have  been  deficient,  but  these 
slight  omissions  did  not  detract  from  their  aggregate  force. 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP  31 

The  strongest  man  had  but  three  fingers  on  his  right  hand ; 
the  best  shot  had  but  one  eye. 

Such  was  the  physical  aspect  of  the  men  that  were  dis- 
persed around  the  cabin.  The  camp  lay  in  a  triangular 
valley  between  two  hills  and  a  river.  The  only  outlet  was 
a  steep  trail  over  the  summit  of  a  hill  that  faced  the  cabin, 
now  illuminated  by  the  rising  moon.  The  suffering  woman 
might  have  seen  it  from  the  rude  bunk  whereon  she  lay  — 
seen  it  winding  like  a  silver  thread  until  it  was  lost  in  the 
stars  above. 

A  fire  of  withered  pine  boughs  added  sociability  to  the 
gathering.  By  degrees  the  natural  levity  of  Roaring  Camp 
returned.  Bets  were  freely  offered  and  taken  regarding  the 
result.  Three  to  five  that  "Sal  would  get  through  with  it" ; 
even  that  the  child  would  survive ;  side  bets  as  to  the  sex 
and  complexion  of  the  coming  stranger.  In  the  midst  of  an 
excited  discussion  an  exclamation  came  from  those  nearest 
the  door,  and  the  camp  stopped  to  listen.  Above  the  sway- 
ing and  moaning  of  the  pines,  the  swift  rush  of  the  river, 
and  the  crackling  of  the  fire  rose  a  sharp,  querulous  cry  — 
a  cry  unlike  anything  heard  before  in  the  camp.  The  pines 
stopped  moaning,  the  river  ceased  to  rush,  and  the  fire  to 
crackle.  It  seemed  as  if  Nature  had  stopped  to  listen  too. 

The  camp  rose  to  its  feet  as  one  man !  It  was  proposed 
to  explode  a  barrel  of  gunpowder ;  but  in  consideration  of 
the  situation  of  the  mother,  better  counsels  prevailed,  and 
only  a  few  revolvers  were  discharged ;  for  whether  owing  to 
the  rude  surgery  of  the  camp,  or  some  other  reason,  Chero- 
kee Sal  was  sinking  fast.  Within  an  hour  she  had  climbed, 
as  it  were,  that  rugged  road  that  led  to  the  stars,  and  so 
passed  out  of  Roaring  Camp,  its  sin  and  shame,  forever.  I 
do  not  think  that  the  announcement  disturbed  them  much, 
except  in  speculation  as  to  the  fate  of  the  child.  "  Can  he 
live  now?"  was  asked  of  Stumpy.  The  answer  was  doubt- 
ful. The  only  other  being  of  Cherokee  Sal's  sex  and  ma- 


32  AMERICAN  TYPES 

ternal  condition  in  the  settlement  was  an  ass.  There  was 
some  conjecture  as  to  fitness,  but  the  experiment  was  tried. 
It  was  less  problematical  than  the  ancient  treatment  of 
Romulus  and  Remus,  and  apparently  as  successful. 

When  these  details  were  completed,  which  exhausted 
another  hour,  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  anxious  crowd 
of  men,  who  had  already  formed  themselves  into  a  queue, 
entered  in  single  file.  Beside  the  low  bunk  or  shelf,  on 
which  the  figure  of  the  mother  was  starkly  outlined  below 
the  blankets,  stood  a  pine  table.  On  this  a  candle-box  was 
placed,  and  within  it,  swathed  in  staring  red  flannel,  lay  the 
last  arrival  at  Roaring  Camp.  Beside  the  candle-box  was 
placed  a  hat.  Its  use  was  soon  indicated.  "  Gentlemen," 
said  Stumpy,  with  a  singular  mixture  of  authority  and  ex- 
qfficio  complacency, — "  gentlemen  will  please  pass  in  at  the 
front  door,  round  the  table,  and  out  at  the  back  door. 
Them  as  wishes  to  contribute  anything  toward  the  orphan 
will  find  a  hat  handy."  The  first  man  entered  with  his  hat 
on ;  he  uncovered,  however,  as  he  looked  about  him,  and  so 
unconsciously  set  an  example  to  the  next.  In  such  com- 
munities good  and  bad  actions  are  catching.  As  the  pro- 
cession filed  in  comments  were  audible  —  criticisms  ad- 
dressed perhaps  rather  to  Stumpy  in  the  character  of 
showman:  "Is  that  him?"  "Mighty  small  specimen"; 
"Hasn't  more'n  got  the  color";  "Ain't  bigger  nor  a  der- 
ringer." The  contributions  were  as  characteristic :  a  silver 
tobacco  box ;  a  doubloon ;  a  navy  revolver,  silver-mounted ; 
a  gold  specimen;  a  very  beautifully  embroidered  lady's 
handkerchief  (from  Oakhurst  the  gambler) ;  a  diamond 
breastpin ;  a  diamond  ring  (suggested  by  the  pin,  with  the 
remark  from  the  giver  that  he  "saw  that  pin  and  went  two 
diamonds  better")  ;  a  slung-shot;  a  Bible  (contributor  not 
detected) ;  a  golden  spur ;  a  silver  teaspoon  (the  initials,  I 
regret  to  say,  were  not  the  giver's) ;  a  pair  of  surgeon's 
shears ;  a  lancet ;  a  Bank  of  England  note  for  five  pounds ; 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP  33 

and  about  two  hundred  dollars  in  loose  gold  and  silver 
coin.  During  these  proceedings  Stumpy  maintained  a  si- 
lence as  impassive  as  the  dead  on  his  left,  a  gravity  as  in- 
scrutable as  that  of  the  newly  born  on  his  right.  Only  one 
incident  occurred  to  break  the  monotony  of  the  curious 
procession.  As  Kentuck  bent  over  the  candle-box  half 
curiously,  the  child  turned,  and,  in  a  spasm  of  pain,  caught 
at  his  groping  finger,  and  held  it  fast  for  a  moment.  Ken- 
tuck  looked  foolish  and  embarrassed.  Something  like  a 
blush  tried  to  assert  itself  in  his  weather-beaten  cheek. 

"The  d d  little  cuss!"  he  said,  as  he  extricated  his 

finger,  with  perhaps  more  tenderness  and  care  than  he 
might  have  been  deemed  capable  of  showing.  He  held  that 
finger  a  little  apart  from  its  fellows  as  he  went  out,  and  ex- 
amined it  curiously.  The  examination  provoked  the  same 
original  remark  in  regard  to  the  child.  In  fact,  he  seemed 
to  enjoy  repeating  it.  "He  ragtled  with  my  finger,"  he 

remarked  to  Tipton,  holding  up  the  member,  "the  d d 

little  cuss!" 

It  was  four  o'clock  before  the  camp  sought  repose.  A 
light  burnt  in  the  cabin  where  the  watchers  sat,  for  Stumpy 
did  not  go  to  bed  that  night.  Nor  did  Kentuck.  He  drank 
quite  freely,  and  related  with  great  gusto  his  experience, 
invariably  ending  with  his  characteristic  condemnation  of 
the  newcomer.  It  seemed  to  relieve  him  of  any  unjust  im- 
plication of  sentiment,  and  Kentuck  had  the  weaknesses  of 
the  nobler  sex.  When  everybody  else  had  gone  to  bed,  he 
walked  down  to  the  river  and  whistled  reflectingly.  Then 
he  walked  up  the  gulch  past  the  cabin,  still  whistling  with 
demonstrative  unconcern.  At  a  large  redwood  tree  he 
paused  and  retraced  his  steps,  and  again  passed  the  cabin. 
Halfway  down  to  the  river's  bank  he  again  paused,  and 
then  returned  and  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by 
Stumpy.  "How  goes  it?"  said  Kentuck,  looking  past 
Stumpy  toward  the  candle-box.  "All  serene!"  replied 


34  AMERICAN  TYPES 

Stumpy.  "Any  thing  up?"  "Nothing."  There  was  a  pause 
• —  an  embarrassing  one  —  Stumpy  still  holding  the  door. 
Then  Kentuck  had  recourse  to  his  finger,  which  he  held  up 

to  Stumpy.  "Rastled  with  it  — the  d d  little  cuss," 

he  said,  and  retired. 

The  next  day  Cherokee  Sal  had  such  rude  sepulture  as 
Roaring  Camp  afforded.  After  her  body  had  been  com- 
mitted to  the  hillside,  there  was  a  formal  meeting  of  the 
camp  to  discuss  what  should  be  done  with  her  infant.  A 
resolution  to  adopt  it  was  unanimous  and  enthusiastic. 
But  an  animated  discussion  in  regard  to  the  manner  and 
feasibility  of  providing  for  its  wants  at  once  sprang  up.  It 
was  remarkable  that  the  argument  partook  of  none  of 
those  fierce  personalities  with  which  discussions  were  us- 
ually conducted  at  Roaring  Camp.  Tipton  proposed  that 
they  should  send  the  child  to  Red  Dog  —  a  distance  of 
forty  miles  —  where  female  attention  could  be  procured. 
But  the  unlucky  suggestion  met  with  fierce  and  unanimous 
opposition.  It  was  evident  that  no  plan  which  entailed 
parting  from  their  new  acquisition  would  for  a  moment  be 
entertained.  "Besides,"  said  Tom  Ryder,  "them  fellows 
at  Red  Dog  would  swap  it,  and  ring  in  somebody  else  on 
us."  A  disbelief  in  the  honesty  of  other  camps  prevailed  at 
Roaring  Camp,  as  in  other  places. 

The  introduction  of  a  female  nurse  in  the  camp  also  met 
with  objection.  It  was  argued  that  no  decent  woman  could 
be  prevailed  on  to  accept  Roaring  Camp  as  her  home,  and 
the  speaker  urged  that  "they  didn't  want  any  more  of  the 
other  kind."  This  unkind  allusion  to  the  defunct  mother, 
harsh  as  it  may  seem,  was  the  first  spasm  of  propriety  — 
the  first  symptom  of  the  camp's  regeneration.  Stumpy  ad- 
vanced nothing.  Perhaps  he  felt  a  certain  delicacy  in  inter- 
fering with  the  selection  of  a  possible  successor  in  office. 
But  when  questioned,  he  averred  stoutly  that  he  and 
"Jinny" — the  mammal  before  alluded  to  —  could  man- 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP  35 

age  to  rear  the  child.  There  was  something  original,  inde- 
pendent, and  heroic  about  the  plan  that  pleased  the  camp. 
Stumpy  Was  retained.  Certain  articles  were  sent  for  to 
Sacramento.  "Mind,"  said  the  treasurer,  as  he  pressed  a 
bag  of  gold-dust  into  the  expressman's  hand,  "the  best 
that  can  be  got  —  lace,  you  know,  and  filigree-work  and 
frills  —  d n  the  cost ! " 

Strange  to  say,  the  child  thrived.  Perhaps  the  invigo- 
rating climate  of  the  mountain  camp  was  compensation  for 
material  deficiencies.  Nature  took  the  foundling  to  her 
broader  breast.  In  that  rare  atmosphere  of  the  Sierra  foot- 
hills — that  air  pungent  with  balsamic  odor,  that  ethereal 
cordial  at  once  bracing  and  exhilarating  —  he  may  have 
found  food  and  nourishment,  or  a  subtle  chemistry  that 
transmuted  ass's  milk  to  lime  and  phosphorus.  Stumpy 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  it  was  the  latter  and  good  nurs- 
ing. "Me  and  that  ass,"  he  would  say,  "has  been  father 
and  mother  to  him !  Don't  you,"  he  would  add,  apostro- 
phizing the  helpless  bundle  before  him,  "never  go  back 
on  us." 

By  the  time  he  was  a  month  old  the  necessity  of  giving 
him  a  name  became  apparent.  He  had  generally  been 
known  as  "The  Kid,"  "Stumpy's  Boy,"  "The  Coyote" 
(an  allusion  to  his  vocal  powers),  and  even  by  Kentuck's 

endearing  diminutive  of  "The  d d  little  cuss."  But 

these  were  felt  to  be  vague  and  unsatisfactory,  and  were  at 
last  dismissed  under  another  influence.  Gamblers  and  ad- 
venturers are  generally  superstitious,  and  Oakhurst  one  day 
declared  that  the  baby  had  brought  "the  luck"  to  Roaring 
Camp.  It  was  certain  that  of v  late  they  had  been  success- 
ful. "Luck"  was  the  name  agreed  upon,  with  the  prefix  of 
Tommy  for  greater  convenience.  No  allusion  was  made  to 
the  mother,  and  the  father  was  unknown.  "It's  better," 
said  the  philosophical  Oakhurst,  "to  take  a  fresh  deal  all 
round.  Call  him  Luck,  and  start  him  fair."  A  day  was 


86  AMERICAN  TYPES 

accordingly  set  apart  for  the  christening.  What  was  meant 
by  this  ceremony  the  reader  may  imagine  who  has  already 
gathered  some  idea  of  the  reckless  irreverence  of  Roaring 
Camp.  The  master  of  ceremonies  was  one  "Boston,"  a 
noted  wag,  and  the  occasion  seemed  to  promise  the  greatest 
facetiousness.  This  ingenious  satirist  had  spent  two  days 
in  preparing  a  burlesque  of  the  Church  service,  with  pointed 
local  allusions.  The  choir  was  properly  trained,  and  Sandy 
Tipton  was  to  stand  godfather.  But  after  the  procession 
had  marched  to  the  grove  with  music  and  banners,  and  the 
child  had  been  deposited  before  a  mock  altar,  Stumpy 
stepped  before  the  expectant  crowd.  "  It  ain't  my  style  to 
spoil  fun,  boys,"  said  the  little  man,  stoutly  eyeing  the 
faces  around  him,  "but  it  strikes  me  that  this  thing  ain't 
exactly  on  the  squar.  It's  playin*  it  pretty  low  down  on 
this  yer  baby  to  ring  in  fun  on  him  that  he  ain't  goin'  to 
understand.  And  ef  there's  goin'  to  be  any  godfathers 
round,  I'd  like  to  see  who's  got  any  better  rights  than  me." 
A  silence  followed  Stumpy 's  speech.  To  the  credit  of  all 
humorists  be  it  said  that  the  first  man  to  acknowledge  its 
justice  was  the  satirist  thus  stopped  of  his  fun.  "But," 
said  Stumpy,  quickly  following  up  his  advantage,  "we're 
here  for  a  christening,  and  we'll  have  it.  I  proclaim  you 
Thomas  Luck,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  United  States 
and  the  State  of  California,  so  help  me  God."  It  was  the 
first  time  that  the  name  of  the  Deity  had  been  otherwise 
uttered  than  profanely  in  the  camp.  The  form  of  christen- 
ing was  perhaps  even  more  ludicrous  than  the  satirist  had 
conceived ;  but  strangely  enough,  nobody  saw  it  and  no- 
body laughed.  "Tommy"  was  christened  as  seriously  as 
he  would  have  been  under  a  Christian  roof,  and  cried  and 
was  comforted  in  as  orthodox  fashion. 

And  so  the  work  of  regeneration  began  in  Roaring  Camp. 
Almost  imperceptibly  a  change  came  over  the  settlement. 
The  cabin  assigned  to  "Tommy  Luck"—  or  "The  Luck," 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP  37 

as  he  was  more  frequently  called  —  first  showed  signs  of 
improvement.  It  was  kept  scrupulously  clean  and  white- 
washed. Then  it  was  boarded,  clothed,  and  papered.  The 
rosewood  cradle,  packed  eighty  miles  by  mule,  had,  in 
Stumpy 's  way  of  putting  it,  "sorter  killed  the  rest  of  the 
furniture."  So  the  rehabilitation  of  the  cabin  became  a 
necessity.  The  men  who  were  in  the  habit  of  lounging  in  at 
Stumpy 's  to  see  "how  'The  Luck'  got  on"  seemed  to  ap- 
preciate the  change,  and  in  self-defense  the  rival  establish- 
ment of  "Tuttle's  grocery"  bestirred  itself  and  imported 
a  carpet  and  mirrors.  The  reflections  of  the  latter  on  the 
appearance  of  Roaring  Camp  tended  to  produce  stricter 
habits  of  personal  cleanliness.  Again,  Stumpy  imposed  a 
kind  of  quarantine  upon  those  who,  aspired  to  the  honor 
and  privilege  of  holding  The  Luck.  It  was  a  cruel  mortifi- 
cation to  Kentuck  —  who,  in  the  carelessness  of  a  large 
nature  and  the  habits  of  frontier  life,  had  begun  to  regard 
all  garments  as  a  second  cuticle,  which,  like  a  snake's,  only 
sloughed  off  through  decay  —  to  be  debarred  this  privilege 
from  certain  prudential  reasons.  Yet  such  was  the  subtle 
influence  of  innovation  that  he  thereafter  appeared  regu- 
larly every  afternoon  in  a  clean  shirt  and  face  still  shining 
from  his  ablutions.  Nor  were  moral  and  social  sanitary 
laws  neglected.  "Tommy,"  who  was  supposed  to  spend 
his  whole  existence  in  a  persistent  attempt  to  repose,  must 
not  be  disturbed  by  noise.  The  shouting  and  yelling,  which 
had  gained  the  camp  its  infelicitous  title,  were  not  per- 
mitted within  hearing  distance  of  Stumpy's.  The  men  con- 
versed in  whispers  or  smoked  with  Indian  gravity.  Pro- 
fanity was  tacitly  given  up  in  these  sacred  precincts,  and 
throughout  the  camp  a  popular  form  of  expletive,  known 
as  "D n  the  luck !"  and  "Curse  the  luck  !"  was  aban- 
doned, as  having  a  new  personal  bearing.  Vocal  music  was 
not  interdicted,  being  supposed  to  have  a  soothing,  tran- 
quilizing  quality;  and  one  song,  sung  by  "Man-o'-War 


88  AMERICAN  TYPES 

Jack,"  an  English  sailor  from  Her  Majesty's  Australian 
colonies,  was  quite  popular  as  a  lullaby.  It  was  a  lugubri- 
ous recital  of  the  exploits  of  "the  Arethusa,  Seventy-Four," 
in  a  muffled  minor,  ending  with  a  prolonged  dying  fall  at 
the  burden  of  each  verse,  "On  b-oo-o-ard  of  the  Arethusa." 
It  was  a  fine  sight  to  see  Jack  holding  The  Luck,  rocking 
from  side  to  side  as  if  with  the  motion  of  a  ship,  and  croon- 
ing forth  this  naval  ditty.  Either  through  the  peculiar 
rocking  of  Jack  or  the  length  of  his  song  —  it  contained 
ninety  stanzas,  and  was  continued  with  conscientious  de- 
liberation to  the  bitter  end  —  the  lullaby  generally  had  the 
desired  effect.  At  such  times  the  men  would  lie  at  full 
length  under  the  trees  in  the  soft  summer  twilight,  smok- 
ing their  pipes  and  drinking  in  the  melodious  utterances. 
An  indistinct  idea  that  this  was  pastoral  happiness  per- 
vaded the  camp.  "This  'ere  kind  o'  think,"  said  the  Cock- 
ney Simmons,  meditatively  reclining  on  his  elbow,  "is 
'evingly."  It  reminded  him  of  Greenwich. 

On  the  long  summer  days  The  Luck  was  usually  carried 
to  the  gulch  from  whence  the  golden  store  of  Roaring  Camp 
was  taken.  There,  on  a  blanket  spread  over  pine  boughs, 
he  would  lie  while  the  men  were  working  in  the  ditches  be- 
low. Latterly  there  was  a  rude  attempt  to  decorate  this 
bower  with  flowers  and  sweet-smelling  shrubs,  and  gener- 
ally some  one  would  bring  him  a  cluster  of  wild  honey- 
suckles, azaleas,  or  the  painted  blossoms  of  Las  Mariposas. 
The  men  had  suddenly  awakened  to  the  fact  that  there 
were  beauty  and  significance  in  these  trifles,  which  they  had 
so  long  trodden  carelessly  beneath  their  feet.  A  flake  of 
glittering  mica,  a  fragment  of  variegated  quartz,  a  bright 
pebble  from  the  bed  of  the  creek,  became  beautiful  to  eyes 
thus  cleared  and  strengthened,  and  were  invariably  put 
aside  for  The  Luck.  It  was  wonderful  how  many  treasures 
the  woods  and  hillsides  yielded  that  "would  do  for 
Tommy."  Surrounded  by  playthings  such  as  never  child 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP  39 

out  of  fairyland  had  before,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  Tommy 
was  content.  He  appeared  to  be  serenely  happy,  albeit 
there  was  an  infantine  gravity  about  him,  a  contemplative 
light  in  his  round  gray  eyes,  that  sometimes  worried 
Stumpy.  He  was  always  tractable  and  quiet,  and  it  is  re- 
corded that  once,  having  crept  beyond  his  "corral," — a 
hedge  of  tessellated  pine  boughs,  which  surrounded  his  bed, 
—  he  dropped  over  the  bank  on  his  head  in  the  soft  earth, 
and  remained  with  his  mottled  legs  in  the  air  in  that  posi- 
tion for  at  least  five  minutes  with  unflinching  gravity.  He 
was  extricated  without  a  murmur.  I  hesitate  to  record  the 
many  other  instances  of  his  sagacity,  which  rest,  unfortu- 
nately, upon  the  statements  of  prejudiced  friends.  Some 
of  them  were  not  without  a  tinge  of  superstition.  "  I  crep* 
up  the  bank  just  now,"  said  Kentuck  one  day,  in  a  breath- 
less state  of  excitement,  "and  dern  my  skin  if  he  wasn't 
a-talkin*  to  a  jaybird  as  was  a-sittin*  on  his  lap.  There 
they  was,  just  as  free  and  sociable  as  anything  you  please, 
a-jawin*  at  each  other  just  like  two  cherrybums."  How- 
beit,  whether  creeping  over  the  pine  boughs  or  lying  lazily 
on  his  back  blinking  at  the  leaves  above  him,  to  him  the 
birds  sang,  the  squirrels  chattered,  and  the  flowers  bloomed. 
Nature  was  his  nurse  and  playfellow.  For  him  she  would 
let  slip  between  the  leaves  golden  shafts  of  sunlight  that 
fell  just  within  his  grasp ;  she  would  send  wandering  breezes 
to  visit  him  with  the  balm  of  bay  and  resinous  gum ;  to  him 
the  tall  redwoods  nodded  familiarly  and  sleepily,  the  bum- 
blebees buzzed,  and  the  rooks  cawed  a  slumbrous  accom- 
paniment. 

Such  was  the  golden  summer  of  Roaring  Camp.  They 
were  "flush  times,"  and  the  luck  was  with  them.  The 
claims  had  yielded  enormously.  The  camp  was  jealous  of 
its  privileges  and  looked  suspiciously  on  strangers.  No  en- 
couragement was  given  to  immigration,  and,  to  make  their 
seclusion  more  perfect,  the  land  on  either  side  of  the  moun- 


40  AMERICAN  TYPES 

tain  wall  that  surrounded  the  camp  they  duly  preempted. 
This,  and  a  reputation  for  singular  proficiency  with  the  re- 
volver, kept  the  reserve  of  Roaring  Camp  inviolate.  The 
expressman  —  their  only  connecting  link  with  the  sur- 
rounding world  —  sometimes  told  wonderful  stories  of  the 
camp.  He  would  say,  "They've  a  street  up  there  in  'Roar- 
ing* that  would  lay  over  any  street  in  Red  Dog.  They've 
got  vines  and  flowers  round  their  houses,  and  they  wash 
themselves  twice  a  day.  But  they're  mighty  rough  on 
strangers,  and  they  worship  an  Ingin  baby." 

With  the  prosperity  of  the  camp  came  a  desire  for  further 
improvement.  It  was  proposed  to  build  a  hotel  in  the  fol- 
lowing spring,  and  to  invite  one  or  two  decent  families  to 
reside  there  for  the  sake  of  The  Luck,  who  might  perhaps 
profit  by  female  companionship.  The  sacrifice  that  this 
concession  to  the  sex  cost  these  men,  who  were  fiercely 
skeptical  in  regard  to  its  general  virtue  and  usefulness,  can 
only  be  accounted  for  by  their  affection  for  Tommy.  A  few 
still  held  out.  But  the  resolve  could  not  be  carried  into 
effect  for  three  months,  and  the  minority  meekly  yielded  in 
the  hope  that  something  might  turn  up  to  prevent  it.  And 
it  did. 

The  winter  of  1851  will  long  be  remembered  in  the  foot- 
hills. The  snow  lay  deep  on  the  Sierras,  and  every  moun- 
tain creek  became  a  river,  and  every  river  a  lake.  Each 
gorge  and  gulch  was  transformed  into  a  tumultuous  water- 
course that  descended  the  hillsides,  tearing  down  giant 
trees  and  scattering  its  drift  and  debris  along  the  plain. 
Red  Dog  had  been  twice  under  water,  and  Roaring  Camp 
had  been  forewarned.  "Water  put  the  gold  into  them 
gulches,"  said  Stumpy.  "It's  been  here  once  and  will  be 
here  again!"  And  that  night  the  North  Fork  suddenly 
leaped  over  its  banks  and  swept  up  the  triangular  valley  of 
Roaring  Camp. 

In  the  confusion  of  rushing  water,  crashing  trees,  and 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP  41 

crackling  timber,  and  the  darkness  which  seemed  to  flow 
with  the  water  and  blot  out  the  fair  valley,  but  little  could 
be  "done  to  collect  the  scattered  camp.  When  the  morning 
broke,  the  cabin  of  Stumpy,  nearest  the  river-bank,  was 
gone.  Higher  up  the  gulch  they  found  the  body  of  its  un- 
lucky owner ;  but  the  pride,  the  hope,  the  joy,  The  Luck, 
of  Roaring  Camp  had  disappeared.  They  were  returning 
with  sad  hearts  when  a  shout  from  the  bank  recalled  them. 

It  was  a  relief-boat  from  down  the  river.  They  had 
picked  up,  they  said,  a  man  and  an  infant,  nearly  ex- 
hausted, about  two  miles  below.  Did  anybody  know  them, 
and  did  they  belong  here  ? 

It  needed  but  a  glance  to  show  them  Kentuck  lying 
there,  cruelly  crushed  and  bruised,  but  still  holding  The 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  in  his  arms.  As  they  bent  over  the 
strangely  assorted  pair,  they  saw  that  the  child  was  cold 
and  pulseless.  "He  is  dead,"  said  one.  Kentuck  opened  his 
eyes.  "Dead?"  he  repeated  feebly.  "Yes,  my  man,  and 
you  are  dying  too."  A  smile  lit  the  eyes  of  the  expiring 
Kentuck.  "Dying!"  he  repeated;  "he's  a-takin'  me  with 
him.  Tell  the  boys  I've  got  The  Luck  with  me  now" ;  and 
the  strong  man,  clinging  to  the  frail  babe  as  a  drowning 
man  is  said  to  cling  to  a  straw,  drifted  away  into  the 
shadowy  river  that  flows  forever  to  the  unknown  sea. 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  AT  THE 
COUNTY  FAIR1 

BY  MARY  N.  MURFREE 

JENKS  HOLMS  sat  on  the  fence.  He  slowly  turned  the  quid 
of  tobacco  in  his  cheek,  and  lifting  up  his  voice  spoke  with 
an  oracular  drawl : 

"Ef  he  kin  take  the  certificate  it's  the  mos'  ez  he  kin  do. 
He  ain't  never  a-goin'  ter  git  no  premi-wm  in  this  Me,  sure's 
ye  air  a  born  sinner." 

And  he  relapsed  into  silence.  His  long  legs  dangled  de- 
jectedly among  the  roadside  weeds;  his  brown  jeans 
trousers,  that  had  despaired  of  ever  reaching  his  ankles, 
were  ornamented  here  and  there  with  ill-adjusted  patches, 
and  his  loose-fitting  coat  was  out  at  the  elbows.  An  old 
white  wool  hat  drooped  over  his  eyes,  which  were  fixed  ab- 
sently on  certain  distant  blue  mountain  ranges,  that  melted 
tenderly  into  the  blue  of  the  noonday  sky,  and  framed  an 
exquisite  mosaic  of  poly-tinted  fields  in  the  valley,  far,  far 
below  the  grim  gray  crag  on  which  his  little  home  was 
perched. 

Despite  his  long  legs  he  was  a  light  weight,  or  he  would 
not  have  chosen  as  his  favorite  seat  so  rickety  a  fence.  His 
interlocutor,  a  heavier  man,  apparently  had  some  doubts, 
for  he  leaned  only  slightly  against  one  of  the  projecting  rails 
as  he  whittled  a  pine  stick,  and  with  his  every  movement 
the  frail  structure  trembled.  The  log  cabin  seemed  as 
rickety  as  the  fence.  The  little  front  porch  had  lost  a 
puncheon  here  and  there  hi  the  flooring  —  perhaps  on 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Mystery  of  Witch-Face  Mountaint 
and  Other  Stories,  by  Charles  Egbert  Craddock  (Mary  N.  Murfree). 
Copyright  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  48 

some  cold  winter  night  when  Hollis's  energy  was  not  suf- 
ficiently exuberant  to  convey  him  to  the  woodpile;  the 
slender  posts  that  upheld  its  roof  seemed  hardly  strong 
enough  to  withstand  the  weight  of  the  luxuriant  vines  with 
their  wealth  of  golden  gourds  which  had  clambered  far  over 
the  moss-grown  clapboards ;  the  windows  had  fewer  panes 
of  glass  than  rags ;  and  the  chimney,  built  of  clay  and  sticks, 
leaned  portentously  away  from  the  house.  The  open  door 
displayed  a  rough,  uncovered  floor;  a  few  old  rush-bot- 
tomed chairs;  a  bedstead  with  a  patchwork  calico  quilt, 
the  mattress  swagging  in  the  center  and  showing  the  badly 
arranged  cords  below ;  strings  of  bright  red  pepper  hanging 
from  the  dark  rafters ;  a  group  of  tow-headed,  grave-faced, 
barefooted  children ;  and,  occupying  almost  one  side  of  the 
room,  a  broad,  deep,  old-fashioned  fireplace,  where  winter 
and  summer  a  lazy  fire  burned  under  a  lazy  pot. 

Notwithstanding  the  poverty  of  the  aspect  of  the  place 
and  the  evident  sloth  of  its  master,  it  was  characterized  by 
a  scrupulous  cleanliness  strangely  at  variance  with  its  for- 
lorn deficiencies.  The  rough  floor  was  not  only  swept  but 
scoured;  the  dark  rafters,  whence  depended  the  flaming 
banners  of  the  red  pepper,  harbored  no  cobwebs ;  the  grave 
faces  of  the  white-haired  children  bore  no  more  dirt  than 
was  consistent  with  their  recent  occupation  of  making  mud- 
pies;  and  the  sedate,  bald-headed  baby,  lying  silent  but 
wide  awake  in  an  uncouth  wooden  cradle,  was  as  clean  as 
clear  spring  water  and  yellow  soap  could  make  it.  Mrs. 
Hollis  herself,  seen  through  the  vista  of  opposite  open 
doors,  energetically  rubbing  the  coarse  wet  clothes  upon 
the  resonant  washboard,  seemed  neat  enough  in  her  blue- 
and-white  checked  homespun  dress,  and  with  her  scanty 
hair  drawn  smoothly  back  from  her  brow  into  a  tidy  little 
knot  on  the  top  of  her  head. 

Spare  and  gaunt  she  was,  and  with  many  lines  in  her 
prematurely  old  face.  Perhaps  they  told  of  the  hard  fight 


44  AMERICAN  TYPES 

her  brave  spirit  waged  against  the  stern  ordering  of  her 
life ;  of  the  struggles  with  squalor  —  inevitable  concomi- 
tant of  poverty  —  and  to  keep  together  the  souls  and 
bodies  of  those  numerous  children,  with  no  more  efficient 
assistance  than  could  be  wrung  from  her  reluctant  husband 
in  the  short  intervals  when  he  did  not  sit  on  the  fence. 
She  managed  as  well  as  she  could ;  there  was  an  abundance 
of  fine  fruit  in  that  low  line  of  foliage  behind  the  house  — 
but  everybody  on  Old  Bear  Mountain  had  fine  fruit. 
Something  rarer,  she  had  good  vegetables  —  the  planting 
and  hoeing  being  her  own  work  and  her  eldest  daughter's ; 
an  occasional  shallow  furrow  representing  the  contribu- 
tion of  her  husband's  plough.  The  althea-bushes  and  the 
branches  of  the  laurel  sheltered  a  goodly  number  of  roost- 
ing hens  in  these  September  nights ;  and  to  the  pond,  which 
had  been  formed  by  damming  the  waters  of  the  spring 
branch  in  the  hollow  across  the  road,  was  moving  even  now 
a  stately  procession  of  geese  in  single  file.  These  simple 
belongings  were  the  trophies  of  a  gallant  battle  against 
unalterable  conditions  and  the  dragging,  dispiriting  clog  of 
her  husband's  inertia. 

His  inner  life  —  does  it  seem  hard  to  realize  that  In  that 
uncouth  personality  concentered  the  complex,  incompre- 
hensible, ever-shifting  emotions  of  that  inner  life  which, 
after  all,  is  so  much  stronger,  and  deeper,  and  broader  than 
the  material  ?  Here,  too,  beat  the  hot  heart  of  humanity  — 
beat  with  no  measured  throb.  He  had  his  hopes,  his  pleas- 
ure, his  pain,  like  those  of  a  higher  culture,  differing  only  in 
object,  and  something  perhaps  in  degree.  His  disappoint- 
ments were  bitter  and  lasting ;  his  triumphs,  few  and  sor- 
did ;  his  single  aspiration  —  to  take  the  premium  offered 
by  the  directors  of  the  Kildeer  County  Fair  for  the  best 
equestrian. 

This  incongruous  and  unpromising  ambition  had  sprung 
up  in  this  wise:  Between  the  country  people  of  Kildeer 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  45 

County  and  the  citizens  of  the  village  of  Colbury,  the 
county-seat,  existed  a  bitter  and  deeply  rooted  animosity 
manifesting  itself  at  conventions,  elections  for  the  legisla- 
ture, etc.,  the  rural  population  voting  as  a  unit  against  the 
town's  candidate.  On  all  occasions  of  public  meetings 
there  was  a  struggle  to  crush  any  invidious  distinction 
against  the  "country  boys,"  especially  at  the  annual  fair. 
Here  to  the  rustics  of  Kildeer  County  came  the  tug  of  war. 
The  population  of  the  outlying  districts  was  more  numer- 
ous, and,  when  it  could  be  used  as  a  suffrage  engine,  all- 
powerful  ;  but  the  region  immediately  adjacent  to  the  town 
was  far  more  fertile.  On  those  fine  meadows  grazed  the 
graceful  Jersey;  there  gamboled  sundry  long-tailed  colts 
with  long-tailed  pedigrees;  there  greedy  Berkshires  fat- 
tened themselves  to  abnormal  proportions ;  and  the  meri- 
nos could  hardly  walk,  for  the  weight  of  their  own  rich 
wardrobes.  The  well-to-do  farmers  of  this  section  were 
hand-in-glove  with  the  town's  people;  they  drove  their 
trotters  in  every  day  or  so  to  get  their  mail,  to  chat  with 
their  cronies,  to  attend  to  their  affairs  in  court,  to  sell  or  to 
buy  —  their  pleasures  centered  in  the  town,  and  they 
turned  the  cold  shoulder  upon  the  country,  which  sup- 
ported them,  and  gave  their  influence  to  Colbury,  account- 
ing themselves  an  integrant  part  of  it.  Thus,  at  the  fairs 
the  town  claimed  the  honor  and  glory.  The  blue  ribbon 
decorated  cattle  and  horses  bred  within  ten  miles  of  the 
flaunting  flag  on  the  judges'  stand,  and  the  foaming  moun- 
tain torrents  and  the  placid  stream  in  the  valley  beheld  no 
cerulean  hues  save  those  of  the  sky  which  they  reflected. 
The  premium  offered  this  year  for  the  best  rider  was,  as 
it  happened,  a  new  feature,  and  excited  especial  interest. 
The  country's  blood  was  up.  Here  was  something  for  which 
it  could  fairly  compete,  with  none  of  the  disadvantages  of 
the  false  position  in  which  it  was  placed.  Hence  a  prosper- 
ous landed  proprietor,  the  leader  of  the  rural  faction,  dwell- 


46  AMERICAN  TYPES 

ing  midway  between  the  town  and  the  range  of  mountains 
that  bounded  the  county  on  the  north  and  east,  bethought 
himself  one  day  of  Jenkins  Hollis,  whose  famous  riding  had 
been  the  feature  of  a  certain  dashing  cavalry  charge  — 
once  famous,  too  —  forgotten  now  by  all  but  the  men  who, 
for  the  first  and  only  time  in  their  existence,  penetrated  in 
those  war  days  the  blue  mountains  fencing  in  their  county 
from  the  outer  world,  and  looked  upon  the  alien  life  beyond 
that  wooded  barrier.  The  experience  of  those  four  years, 
submerged  in  the  whirling  rush  of  events  elsewhere,  sur- 
vives in  these  eventless  regions  in  a  dreamy,  dispassionate 
sort  of  longevity.  And  Jenkins  Hollis's  feat  of  riding  stol- 
idly —  one  could  hardly  say  bravely  —  up  an  almost  sheer 
precipice  to  a  flame-belching  battery  came  suddenly  into 
the  landed  magnate's  recollection  with  the  gentle  vapors 
and  soothing  aroma  of  a  meditative  after-dinner  pipe. 
Quivering  with  party  spirit,  Squire  Goodlet  sent  for  Hollis 
and  offered  to  lend  him  the  best  horse  on  the  place,  and  a 
saddle  and  bridle,  if  he  would  go  down  to  Colbury  and 
beat  those  town  fellows  out  on  their  own  ground. 

No  misgivings  had  Hollis.  The  inordinate  personal  pride 
characteristic  of  the  mountaineer  precluded  his  feeling  a 
shrinking  pain  at  the  prospect  of  being  presented,  a  sorry 
contrast,  among  the  well-clad,  well-to-do  town's  people,  to 
compete  in  a  public  contest.  He  did  not  appreciate  the 
difference  —  he  thought  himself  as  good  as  the  best. 

And  to-day,  complacent  enough,  he  sat  upon  the  rickety 
fence  at  home,  oracularly  disparaging  the  equestrian  ac- 
complishments of  the  town's  noted  champion. 

"I  dunno  —  I  dunno,"  said  his  young  companion  doubt- 
fully. "Hackett  sets  mighty  firm  onto  his  saddle.  He's  ez 
straight  ez  any  shingle,  an'  ez  tough  ez  a  pine-knot.  He 
come  up  hyar  las'  summer  —  war  it  las'  summer,  now? 
No,  't  war  summer  afore  las' —  with  some  o'  them  other 
Colbury  folks,  a-fox-huntin',  an*  a-deer-huntin',  an'  one 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  47 

thing  an*  'nother.  I  seen  'em  a  time  or  two  in  the  woods. 
An'  he  kin  ride  jes'  ez  good  'mongst  the  gullies  and  boulders 
like  ez  ef  he  had  been  born  in  the  hills.  He  ain't  a-goin'  ter 
be  beat  easy." 

"It  don't  make  no  differ,"  retorted  Jenks  Hollis.  "He'll 
never  git  no  premi-wra.  The  certif 'cate's  good  a-plenty  fur 
what  ridin'  he  kin  do." 

Doubt  was  still  expressed  in  the  face  of  the  young  man, 
but  he  said  no  more,  and,  after  a  short  silence,  Mr.  Hollis, 
perhaps  not  relishing  his  visitor's  want  of  appreciation, 
dismounted,  so  to  speak,  from  the  fence,  and  slouched  off 
slowly  up  the  road. 

Jacob  Brice  still  stood  leaning  against  the  rails  and 
whittling  his  pine  stick,  in  no  wise  angered  or  dismayed  by 
his  host's  unceremonious  departure,  for  social  etiquette 
is  not  very  rigid  on  Old  Bear  Mountain.  He  was  a  tall 
athletic  fellow,  clad  in  a  suit  of  brown  jeans,  which  dis- 
played, besides  the  ornaments  of  patches,  sundry  deep 
grass  stains  about  the  knees.  Not  that  piety  induced  Brice 
to  spend  much  time  in  the  lowly  attitude  of  prayer,  unless, 
indeed,  Diana  might  be  accounted  the  goddess  of  his  wor- 
ship. The  green  juice  was  pressed  out  when  kneeling, 
hidden  in  some  leafy,  grassy  nook,  he  heard  the  infrequent 
cry  of  the  wild  turkey,  or  his  large,  intent  blue  eyes  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  stately  head  of  an  antlered  buck,  moving 
majestically  in  the  alternate  sheen  of  the  sunlight  and 
shadow  of  the  overhanging  crags;  or  while  with  his  deft 
hunter's  hands  he  dragged  himself  by  slow,  noiseless  de- 
grees through  the  ferns  and  tufts  of  rank  weeds  to  the 
water's  edge,  that  he  might  catch  a  shot  at  the  feeding  wild 
duck.  A  leather  belt  around  his  waist  supported  his  pow- 
der-horn and  shot-pouch  —  for  his  accouterments  were 
exactly  such  as  might  have  been  borne  a  hundred  years 
ago  by  a  hunter  of  Old  Bear  Mountain  —  and  his  gun 
leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  chestnut-oak. 


48  AMERICAN  TYPES 

Although  he  still  stood  outside  the  fence,  aimlessly 
lounging,  there  was  a  look  on  his  face  of  a  half -suppressed 
expectancy,  which  rendered  the  features  less  statuesque 
than  was  their  wont  —  an  expectancy  that  showed  itself  in 
the  furtive  lifting  of  his  eyelids  now  and  then,  enabling 
him  to  survey  the  doorway  without  turning  his  head.  Sud- 
denly his  face  reassumed  its  habitual,  inexpressive  mask  of 
immobility,  and  the  furtive  eyes  were  persistently  down- 
cast. 

A  flare  of  color,  and  Cynthia  Hollis  was  standing  in  the 
doorway,  leaning  against  its  frame.  She  was  robed,  like 
September,  in  brilliant  yellow.  The  material  and  make 
were  of  the  meanest,  but  there  was  a  certain  appropriate- 
ness in  the  color  with  her  slumberous  dark  eyes  and  the 
curling  tendrils  of  brown  hair  which  fell  upon  her  forehead 
and  were  clustered  together  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  No 
cuffs  and  no  collar  could  this  costume  boast,  but  she  had 
shown  the  inclination  to  finery  characteristic  of  her  age  and 
sex  by  wearing  around  her  throat,  where  the  yellow  hue  of 
her  dress  met  the  creamy  tint  of  her  skin,  a  row  of  large 
black  beads,  threaded  upon  a  shoe-string  in  default  of  an 
elastic,  the  brass  ends  flaunting  brazenly  enough  among 
them.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  string  of  red  pepper,  to  which 
she  was  adding  some  newly  gathered  pods.  A  slow  job 
Cynthia  seemed  to  make  of  it. 

She  took  no  more  notice  of  the  man  under  the  tree  than 
he  accorded  to  her.  There  they  stood,  within  twelve  feet  of 
each  other,  in  utter  silence,  and,  to  all  appearance,  each 
entirely  unconscious  of  the  other's  existence :  he  whittling 
his  pine  stick ;  she,  slowly,  slowly  stringing  the  pods  of  red 
pepper. 

There  was  something  almost  portentous  in  the  gravity 
and  sobriety  of  demeanor  of  this  girl  of  seventeen;  she 
manifested  less  interest  in  the  young  man  than  her  own 
grandmother  might  have  shown. 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  49 

He  was  constrained  to  speak  first.  "Cynthy" — he  said 
at  length,  without  raising  his  eyes  or  turning  his  head.  She 
did  not  answer ;  but  he  knew  without  looking  that  she  had 
fixed  those  slumberous  brown  eyes  upon  him,  waiting  for 
him  to  go  on.  "Cynthy" — he  said  again,  with  a  hesitat- 
ing, uneasy  manner.  Then,  with  an  awkward  attempt  at 
raillery,  "Ain't  ye  never  a-thinkin'  'bout  a-gittin'  mar- 
ried?" 

He  cast  a  laughing  glance  toward  her,  and  looked  down 
quickly  at  his  clasp-knife  and  the  stick  he  was  whittling. 
It  was  growing  very  slender  now. 

Cynthia's  serious  face  relaxed  its  gravity.  "Ye  air  fool- 
ish, Jacob,"  she  said,  laughing.  After  stringing  on  another 
pepper-pod  with  great  deliberation,  she  continued:  "Ef  I 
war  a-studyin'  'bout  a-gittin'  married,  thar  ain't  nobody 
round  'bout  hyar  ez  I'd  hev."  And  she  added  another  pod 
to  the  flaming  red  string,  so  bright  against  the  yellow  of  her 
dress. 

That  stick  could  not  long  escape  annihilation.  The  clasp- 
knife  moved  vigorously  through  its  fibers,  and  accented 
certain  arbitrary  clauses  in  its  owner's  retort.  "Ye  talk 
like,"  he  said,  his  face  as  monotonous  in  its  expression  as  if 
every  line  were  cut  in  marble  — "ye  talk  like  —  ye  thought 
ez  how  I  —  war  a-goin'  ter  ax  ye  —  ter  marry  me.  I  ain't, 
though,  nuther." 

The  stick  was  a  shaving.  It  fell  among  the  weeds.  The 
young  hunter  shut  his  clasp-knife  with  a  snap,  shouldered 
his  gun,  and  without  a  word  of  adieu  on  either  side  the  con- 
ference terminated,  and  he  walked  off  down  the  sandy 
road. 

Cynthia  stood  watching  him  until  the  laurel-bushes  hid 
him  from  sight ;  then  sliding  from  the  door-frame  to  the 
step,  she  sat  motionless,  a  bright-hued  mass  of  yellow 
draperies  and  red  peppers,  her  slumberous  deep  eyes  rest- 
ing on  the  leaves  that  had  closed  upon  him. 


50  AMERICAN  TYPES 

She  was  the  central  figure  of  a  still  landscape.  The  mid- 
day sunshine  fell  in  broad  effulgence  upon  it ;  the  homely, 
dun-colored  shadows  had  been  running  away  all  the  morn- 
ing, as  if  shirking  the  contrast  with  the  splendors  of  the 
golden  light,  until  nothing  was  left  of  them  except  a  dark 
circle  beneath  the  wide-spreading  trees.  No  breath  of  wind 
stirred  the  leaves,  or  rippled  the  surface  of  the  little  pond. 
The  lethargy  of  the  hour  had  descended  even  upon  the 
towering  pine-trees  growing  on  the  precipitous  slope  of  the 
mountain,  and  showing  their  topmost  plumes  just  above 
the  frowning,  gray  crag  —  their  melancholy  song  was 
hushed.  The  silent  masses  of  dazzling  white  clouds  were 
poised  motionless  in  the  ambient  air,  high  above  the  valley 
and  the  misty  expanse  of  the  distant,  wooded  ranges. 

A  lazy,  lazy  day,  and  very,  very  warm.  The  birds  had 
much  ado  to  find  sheltering  shady  nooks  where  they  might 
escape  the  glare  and  the  heat ;  their  gay  carols  were  out  of 
season,  and  they  blinked  and  nodded  under  their  leafy  um- 
brellas, and  fanned  themselves  with  their  wings,  and  twit- 
tered disapproval  of  the  weather.  "Hot,  hot,  red-hot!" 
said  the  birds — "broiling  hot!" 

Now  and  then  an  acorn  fell  from  among  the  serrated 
chestnut  leaves,  striking  upon  the  fence  with  a  sounding 
thwack,  and  rebounding  in  the  weeds.  Those  chestnut- 
oaks  always  seem  to  unaccustomed  eyes  the  creation  of 
Nature  in  a  fit  of  mental  aberration  —  useful  freak !  the 
mountain  swine  fatten  on  the  plenteous  mast,  and  the 
bark  is  highly  esteemed  at  the  tanyard. 

A  large  cat  was  lying  at  full  length  on  the  floor  of  the 
little  porch,  watching  with  drowsy,  half-closed  eyes  the 
assembled  birds  in  the  tree.  But  she  seemed  to  have  re- 
linquished the  pleasures  of  the  chase  until  the  mercury 
should  fall. 

Close  in  to  the  muddiest  side  of  the  pond  over  there, 
which  was  all  silver  and  blue  with  the  reflection  of  the 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  51 

great  masses  of  white  clouds,  and  the  deep  azure  sky,  a 
fleet  of  shining,  snowy  geese  was  moored,  perfectly  motion- 
less too.  No  circumnavigation  for  them  this  hot  day. 

And  Cynthia's  dark  brown  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  leafy 
vista  of  the  road,  were  as  slumberous  as  the  noontide  sun- 
shine. 

"Cynthy!  Whar  is  the  gal?"  said  poor  Mrs.  Hollis,  as 
she  came  around  the  house  to  hang  out  the  ragged  clothes 
on  the  althea-bushes  and  the  rickety  fence.  "Cynthy,  air 
ye  a-goin'  ter  sit  thar  in  the  door  all  day,  an*  that  thar  pot 
a-bilin'  all  the  stren'th  out'n  that  thar  cabbige  an'  roas'in'- 
ears  ?  Dish  up  dinner,  child,  an'  don't  be  so  slow  an'  slack- 
twisted  like  yer  dad." 

Great  merriment  there  was,  to  be  sure,  at  the  Kildeer 
Fair  Grounds,  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  Colbury,  when 
it  became  known  to  the  convulsed  town  faction  that  the 
gawky  Jenks  Hollis  intended  to  compete  for  the  premium 
to  be  awarded  to  the  best  and  most  graceful  rider.  The 
contests  of  the  week  had  as  usual  resulted  in  Colbury's 
favor ;  this  was  the  last  day  of  the  fair,  and  the  defeated 
country  population  anxiously  but  still  hopefully  awaited 
its  notable  event. 

A  warm  sun  shone ;  a  brisk  autumnal  breeze  waved  the 
flag  flying  from  the  judges'  stand ;  a  brass  band  in  the  upper 
story  of  that  structure  thrilled  the  air  with  the  vibrations 
of  popular  waltzes  and  marches,  somewhat  marred  now 
and  then  by  mysteriously  discordant  bass  tones ;  the  judges, 
portly,  red-faced,  middle-aged  gentlemen,  sat  below  in 
cane-bottom  chairs  critically  a-tilt  on  the  hind  legs.  The 
rough  wooden  amphitheater,  a  bold  satire  on  the  stately 
Roman  edifice,  was  filled  with  the  denizens  of  Colbury  and 
the  rosy  rural  faces  of  the  country  people  of  Kildeer 
County;  and  within  the  charmed  arena  the  competitors 
for  the  blue  ribbon  and  the  saddle  and  bridle  to  be  awarded 


62  AMERICAN  TYPES 

to  the  best  rider  were  just  now  entering,  ready  mounted, 
from  a  door  beneath  the  tiers  of  seats,  and  were  slowly 
making  the  tour  of  the  circle  around  the  judges'  stand. 
One  by  one  they  came,  with  a  certain  nonchalant  pride  of 
demeanor,  conscious  of  an  effort  to  display  themselves  and 
their  horses  to  the  greatest  advantage,  and  yet  a  little 
ashamed  of  the  consciousness.  For  the  most  part  they  were 
young  men,  prosperous  looking,  and  clad  according  to  the 
requirements  of  fashion  which  prevailed  in  this  little  town. 
Shut  in  though  it  was  from  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the 
world  by  the  encircling  chains  of  blue  ranges  and  the  bend- 
ing sky  which  rested  upon  their  summits,  the  frivolity  of 
the  mode,  though  somewhat  belated,  found  its  way  and 
ruled  with  imperative  rigor.  Good  riders  they  were  un- 
doubtedly, accustomed  to  the  saddle  almost  from  infancy, 
and  well  mounted.  A  certain  air  of  gallantry,  always  char- 
acteristic of  an  athletic  horseman,  commended  these  eques- 
trian figures  to  the  eye  as  they  slowly  circled  about.  Still 
they  came  —  eight  —  nine  —  ten  —  the  eleventh,  the  long, 
lank  frame  of  Jenkins  Hollis  mounted  on  Squire  Goodlet's 
"John  Barleycorn." 

The  horsemen  received  this  ungainly  addition  to  their 
party  with  polite  composure,  and  the  genteel  element  of 
the  spectators  remained  silent  too  from  the  force  of  good 
breeding  and  good  feeling;  but  the  "roughs,"  always  criti- 
cally a-loose  in  a  crowd,  shouted  and  screamed  with  de- 
risive hilarity.  What  they  were  laughing  at  Jenks  Hollis 
never  knew.  Grave  and  stolid,  but  as  complacent  as  the 
best,  he  too  made  the  usual  circuit  with  his  ill-fitting  jeans 
suit,  his  slouching  old  wool  hat,  and  his  long,  gaunt  figure. 
But  he  sat  the  spirited  "John  Barleycorn"  as  if  he  were  a 
part  of  the  steed,  and  held  up  his  head  with  unwonted 
dignity,  inspired  perhaps  by  the  stately  attitudes  of  the 
horse,  which  were  the  result  of  no  training  nor  compelling 
reins,  but  the  instinct  transmitted  through  a  long  line 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  53 

of  high-headed  ancestry.  Of  a  fine  old  family  was  "John 
Barleycorn." 

A  deeper  sensation  was  in  store  for  the  spectators.  Be- 
fore Jenkins  Hollis's  appearance  most  of  them  had  heard 
of  his  intention  to  compete,  but  the  feeling  was  one  of  un- 
mixed astonishment  when  entry  number  twelve  rode  into 
the  arena,  and,  on  the  part  of  the  country  people,  this  sur- 
prise was  supplemented  by  an  intense  indignation.  The 
twelfth  man  was  Jacob  Brice.  As  he  was  a  "mounting 
boy,"  one  would  imagine  that,  if  victory  should  crown  his 
efforts,  the  rural  faction  ought  to  feel  the  elation  of  success, 
but  the  prevailing  sentiment  toward  him  was  that  which 
every  well-conducted  mind  must  entertain  concerning  the 
individual  who  runs  against  the  nominee.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  fact  that  Brice  was  a  notable  rider,  too,  and  well 
calculated  to  try  the  mettle  of  the  town's  champion,  there 
arose  from  the  excited  countrymen  a  keen,  bitter,  and  out- 
raged cry  of  "Take  him  out !"  So  strongly  does  the  par- 
tisan heart  pulsate  to  the  interests  of  the  nominee !  This 
frantic  petition  had  no  effect  on  the  interloper.  A  man  who 
has  inherited  half  a  dozen  violent  quarrels,  any  one  of 
which  may  at  any  moment  burst  into  a  vendetta, —  in- 
heriting little  else, —  is  not  easily  dismayed  by  the  dis- 
approbation of  either  friend  or  foe.  His  statuesque  features, 
shaded  by  the  drooping  brim  of  his  old  black  hat,  were  aa 
calm  as  ever,  and  his  slow  blue  eyes  did  not,  for  one  mo-. 
ment,  rest  upon  the  excited  scene  about  him,  so  unspeak- 
ably new  to  his  scanty  experience.  His  fine  figure  showed 
to  great  advantage  on  horseback,  despite  his  uncouth, 
coarse  garb ;  he  was  mounted  upon  a  sturdy,  brown  mare 
of  obscure  origin,  but  good-looking,  clean-built,  sure- 
footed, and  with  the  blended  charm  of  spirit  and  docility ; 
she  represented  his  whole  estate,  except  his  gun  and  his 
lean,  old  hound,  that  had  accompanied  him  to  the  fair,  and 
was  even  now  improving  the  shining  hour  by  quarreling 


54  AMERICAN  TYPES 

over  a  bone  outside  the  grounds  with  other  people's  hand- 
somer dogs. 

The  judges  were  exacting.  The  riders  were  ordered  to 
gallop  to  the  right  —  and  around  they  went.  To  the  left  — 
and  there  was  again  the  spectacle  of  the  swiftly  circling 
equestrian  figures.  They  were  required  to  draw  up  in  a 
line,  and  to  dismount ;  then  to  mount,  and  again  to  alight. 
Those  whom  these  maneuvers  proved  inferior  were  dis- 
missed at  once,  and  the  circle  was  reduced  to  eight.  An 
exchange  of  horses  was  commanded;  and  once  more  the 
riding,  fast  and  slow,  left  and  right,  the  mounting  and  dis- 
mounting, were  repeated.  The  proficiency  of  the  remaining 
candidates  rendered  them  worthy  of  more  difficult  ordeals. 
They  were  required  to  snatch  a  hat  from  the  ground  while 
riding  at  full  gallop.  Pistols  loaded  with  blank  cartridges 
were  fired  behind  the  horses,  and  subsequently  close  to 
their  quivering  and  snorting  nostrils,  in  order  that  the  rela- 
tive capacity  of  the  riders  to  manage  a  frightened  and 
unruly  steed  might  be  compared,  and  the  criticism  of  the 
judges  mowed  the  number  down  to  four. 

Free  speech  is  conceded  by  all  right-thinking  people  to 
be  a  blessing.  It  is  often  a  balm.  Outside  of  the  building 
and  of  earshot  the  defeated  aspirants  took  what  comfort 
they  could  in  consigning,  with  great  fervor  and  volubility, 
all  the  judicial  magnates  to  that  torrid  region  unknown  to 
polite  geographical  works. 

Of  the  four  horsemen  remaining  in  the  ring,  two  were 
Jenkins  Hollis  and  Jacob  Brice.  Short  turns  at  full  gallop 
were  prescribed.  The  horses  were  required  to  go  backward 
at  various  gaits.  Bars  were  brought  in  and  the  crowd  en- 
joyed the  exhibition  of  the  standing-leap,  at  an  ever-in- 
creasing height,  and  then  the  flying-leap  —  a  tumultuous 
confused  impression  of  thundering  hoofs  and  tossing  mane 
and  grim,  defiant  faces  of  horse  and  rider,  in  the  lightning- 
like  moment  of  passing.  Obstructions  were  piled  on  the 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  55 

track  for  the  "long  jumps,"  and  in  one  of  the  wildest  leaps 
a  good  rider  was  unhorsed  and  rolled  on  the  ground,  while 
his  recreant  steed,  that  had  balked  at  the  last  moment, 
scampered  around  and  around  the  arena  in  a  wild  effort  to 
find  the  door  beneath  the  tiers  of  seats  to  escape  so  fierce  a 
competition.  This  accident  reduced  the  number  of  candi- 
dates to  the  two  mountaineers  and  Tip  Hackett,  the  man 
whom  Jacob  had  pronounced  a  formidable  rival.  The  cir- 
cling about,  the  mounting  and  dismounting,  the  exchange 
of  horses,  were  several  times  repeated  without  any  apparent 
result,  and  excitement  rose  to  fever  heat. 

The  premium  and  certificate  lay  between  the  three  men. 
The  town  faction  trembled  at  the  thought  that  the  sub- 
stantial award  of  the  saddle  and  bridle,  with  the  decora- 
tion of  the  blue  ribbon,  and  the  intangible  but  still  precious 
secondary  glory  of  the  certificate  and  the  red  ribbon  might 
be  given  to  the  two  mountaineers,  leaving  the  crack  rider  of 
Colbury  in  an  ignominious  lurch ;  while  the  country  party 
feared  Hollis's  defeat  by  Hackett  rather  less  than  that 
Jenks  would  be  required  to  relinquish  the  premium  to  the 
interloper  Brice,  for  the  young  hunter's  riding  had  stricken 
a  pang  of  prophetic  terror  to  more  than  one  partisan  rustic's 
heart.  In  the  midst  of  the  perplexing  doubt,  which  tried 
the  judges'  minds,  came  the  hour  for  dinner,  and  the  deci- 
sion was  postponed  until  after  that  meal. 

The  competitors  left  the  arena,  and  the  spectators  trans- 
ferred their  attention  to  unburdening  hampers,  or  to  jost- 
lin-g  one  another  in  the  dining-hall. 

Everybody  was  feasting  but  Cynthia  Hollis.  The  in- 
tense excitement  of  the  day,  the  novel  sights  and  sounds 
utterly  undreamed  of  in  her  former  life,  the  abruptly  struck 
chords  of  new  emotions  suddenly  set  vibrating  within  her, 
had  dulled  her  relish  for  the  midday  meal ;  and  while  the 
other  members  of  the  family  repaired  to  the  shade  of  a  tree 
outside  the  grounds  to  enjoy  that  refection,  she  wandered 


56  AMERICAN  TYPES 

about  the  "floral  hall,"  gazing  at  the  splendors  of  bloom 
thronging  there,  all  so  different  from  the  shy  grace,  the 
fragility  of  poise,  the  delicacy  of  texture  of  the  flowers  of 
her  ken  —  the  rhododendron,  the  azalea,  the  Chilhowee 
lily  —  yet  vastly  imposing  in  their  massed  exuberance  and 
scarlet  pride,  for  somehow  they  all  seemed  high  colored. 

She  went  more  than  once  to  note  with  a  kind. of  aghast 
dismay  those  trophies  of  feminine  industry,  the  quilts; 
some  were  of  the  "log  cabin"  and  "rising  sun"  variety, 
but  others  were  of  geometric  intricacy  of  form  and  were 
kaleidoscopic  of  color  with  an  amazing  labyrinth  of  stitch- 
ings  and  embroideries  —  it  seemed  a  species  of  effrontery 
to  dub  one  gorgeous  poly-tinted  silken  banner  a  quilt. 
But  already  it  bore  a  blue  ribbon,  and  its  owner  was  the 
richer  by  the  prize  of  a  glass  bowl  and  the  envy  of  a  score 
of  deft-handed  competitors.  She  gazed  upon  the  glittering 
jellies  and  preserves,  upon  the  biscuits  and  cheeses,  the 
hair-work  and  wax  flowers,  and  paintings.  These  latter 
treated  for  the  most  part  of  castles  and  seas  rather  than  of 
the  surrounding  altitudes,  but  Cynthia  came  to  a  pause  of 
blank  surprise  in  front  of  a  shadow  rather  than  a  picture 
which  represented  a  spring  of  still  brown  water  in  a  mossy 
cleft  of  a  rock  where  the  fronds  of  a  fern  seemed  to  stir  in 
the  foreground.  "I  hev  viewed  the  like  o'  that  a  many  a 
time,"  she  said  disparagingly.  To  her  it  hardly  seemed 
rare  enough  for  the  blue  ribbon  on  the  frame. 

In  the  next  room  she  dawdled  through  great  piles  of 
prize  fruits  and  vegetables  —  watermelons  unduly  vast  of 
bulk,  peaches  and  pears  and  pumpkins  of  proportions 
never  seen  before  out  of  a  nightmare,  stalks  of  Indian  corn 
eighteen  feet  high  with  seven  ears  each  —  all  apparently 
attesting  what  they  could  do  when  they  would,  and  that 
all  the  enterprise  of  Kildeer  County  was  not  exclusively  of 
the  feminine  persuasion. 

Finally  Cynthia  came  out  from  the  midst  of  them  and 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  57 

stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  large  pillars  which  sup- 
ported the  roof  of  the  amphitheater,  still  gazing  about  the 
half -deserted  building,  with  the  smouldering  fires  of  her 
slumberous  eyes  newly  kindled. 

To  other  eyes  and  ears  it  might  not  have  seemed  a  scene 
of  tumultuous  metropolitan  life,  with  the  murmuring  trees 
close  at  hand  dappling  the  floor  with  sycamore  shadows, 
the  fields  of  Indian  corn  across  the  road,  the  exuberant 
rush  of  the  stream  down  the  slope  just  beyond,  the  few 
hundred  spectators  who  had  intently  watched  the  events 
of  the  day;  but  to  Cynthia  Hollis  the  excitement  of  the 
crowd  and  movement  and  noise  could  no  further  go. 
.'•'  By  the  natural  force  of  gravitation  Jacob  Brice  presently 
was  walking  slowly  and  apparently  aimlessly  around  to 
where  she  was  standing.  He  said  nothing,  however,  when 
he  was  beside  her,  and  she  seemed  entirely  unconscious  of 
his  presence.  Her  yellow  dress  was  as  stiff  as  a  board,  and 
as  clean  as  her  strong  young  arms  could  make  it;  at  her 
throat  were  the  shining  black  beads ;  on  her  head  she  wore 
a  limp,  yellow  calico  sunbonnet,  which  hung  down  over  her 
eyes,  and  almost  obscured  her  countenance.  To  this  article 
she  perhaps  owed  the  singular  purity  and  transparency  of 
her  complexion,  as  much  as  to  the  mountain  air,  and  the 
chiefly  vegetable  fare  of  her  father's  table.  She  wore  it 
constantly,  although  it  operated  almost  as  a  mask,  render- 
ing her  more  easily  recognizable  to  their  few  neighbors  by 
her  flaring  attire  than  by  her  features,  and  obstructing 
from  her  own  view  all  surrounding  scenery,  so  that  she 
could  hardly  see  the  cow,  which  so  much  of  her  time  she 
was  slowly  poking  after. 

She  spoke  unexpectedly,  and  without  any  other  symp- 
tom that  she  knew  of  the  young  hunter's  proximity.  "I 
never  thought,  Jacob,  ez  how  ye  would  hev  come  down 
hyar,  all  the  way  from  the  mountings,  to  ride  ag'in*  my 
dad,  an*  beat  him  out'n  that  thar  saddle  an*  bridle." 


58  AMERICAN  TYPES 

"Ye  won't  hev  nothin'  ter  say  ter  me,"  retorted  Jacob 
sourly. 

A  long  silence  ensued. 

Then  he  resumed  didactically,  but  with  some  irrelevancy, 
"I  tole  ye  t'other  day  ez  how  ye  war  old  enough  ter  be 
a-studyin'  'bout  gittin'  married." 

"They  don't  think  nothin'  of  ye  ter  our  house,  Jacob. 
Dad's  always  a-jowin'  at  ye."  Cynthia's  candor  certainly 
could  not  be  called  in  question. 

The  young  hunter  replied  with  some  natural  irritation : 
"He  hed  better  not  let  me  hear  him,  ef  he  wants  to  keep 
whole  bones  inside  his  skin.  He  better  not  tell  me,  nuther." 

"He  don't  keer  enough  'bout  ye,  Jacob,  ter  tell  ye.  He 
don't  think  nothin'  of  ye." 

Love  is  popularly  supposed  to  dull  the  mental  faculties. 
It  developed  in  Jacob  Brice  sudden  strategic  abilities. 

"Thar  is  them  ez  does,"  he  said  diplomatically. 

Cynthia  spoke  promptly  with  more  vivacity  than  usual, 
but  in  her  customary  drawl  and  apparently  utterly  irrele- 
vantly : 

"I  never  in  all  my  days  see  no  sech  red-headed  gal  ez 
that  thar  Becky  Stiles.  She's  the  red-headedest  gal  ever  I 
see."  And  Cynthia  once  more  was  silent. 

Jacob  resumed,  also  irrelevantly : 

"When  I  goes  a-huntin'  up  yander  ter  Pine  Lick,  they  is 
mighty  perlite  ter  me.  They  ain't  never  done  nothin'  ag'in' 
me,  ez  I  knows  on."  Then,  after  a  pause  of  deep  cogitation, 
he  added,  "Nor  hev  they  said  nothin'  ag'in'  me,  nuther." 

Cynthia  took  up  her  side  of  the  dialogue,  if  dialogue  it 
could  be  called,  with  wonted  irrelevancy:  "That  thar 
Becky  Stiles,  she's  got  the  freckledest  face  —  ez  freckled 
ez  any  turkey-aig"  (with  an  indescribable  drawl  on  the  last 
word). 

"They  ain't  done  nothin'  ag'in'  me,"  reiterated  Jacob 
astutely,  ''nor  said  nothin'  nuther  —  none  of  'em." 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  59 

Cynthia  looked  hard  across  the  amphitheater  at  the  dis- 
tant Great  Smoky  Mountains  shimmering  in  the  hazy 
September  sunlight  —  so  ineffably  beautiful,  so  delicately 
blue,  that  they  might  have  seemed  the  ideal  scenery  of 
some  impossibly  lovely  ideal  world.  Perhaps  she  was  won- 
dering what  the  unconscious  Becky  Stiles,  far  away  in 
those  dark  woods  about  Pine  Lick,  had  secured  in  this  life 
besides  her  freckled  face.  Was  this  the  sylvan  deity  of  the 
young  hunter's  adoration  ? 

|*  Cynthia  took  off  her  sunbonnet  to  use  it  for  a  fan.  Per- 
haps it  was  well  for  her  that  she  did  so  at  this  moment ;  it 
had  so  entirely  concealed  her  head  that  her  hair  might 
have  been  the  color  of  Becky  Stiles's,  and  no  one  the  wiser. 
The  dark  brown  tendrils  curled  delicately  on  her  creamy 
forehead ;  the  excitement  of  the  day  had  flushed  her  pale 
cheeks  with  an  unwonted  glow ;  her  eyes  were  alight  with 
their  newly  kindled  fires ;  the  clinging  curtain  of  her  bonnet 
had  concealed  the  sloping  curves  of  her  shoulders  —  alto- 
gether she  was  attractive  enough,  despite  the  flare  of  her 
yellow  dress,  and  especially  attractive  to  the  untutored 
eyes'of  Jacob  Brice.  He  relented  suddenly,  and  lost  all  the 
advantages  of  his  tact  and  diplomacy. 

"I  likes  ye  better  nor  I  does  Becky  Stiles,"  he  said  mod- 
erately. Then  with  more  fervor,  "  I  likes  ye  better  nor  any 
gal  I  ever  see." 

The  usual  long  pause  ensued. 

"Ye  hev  got  a  mighty  cur'ous  way  o*  showin*  it," 
Cynthia  replied. 

"I  dunno  what  ye're  talkin*  'bout,  Cynthy." 

"Ye  hev  got  a  mighty  cur'ous  way  o'  showin'  it,"  she 
reiterated,  with  renewed  animation —  "a-comin'  all  the 
way  down  hyar  from  the  mountings  ter  beat  my  dad  out'n 
that  thar  saddle  an*  bridle,  what  he's  done  sot  his  heart 
onto.  Mighty  cur'ous  way." 

"Look  hyar,  Cynthy — "  The  young  hunter  broke  off 


60  AMERICAN  TYPES 

suddenly,  and  did  not  speak  again  for  several  minutes.  A 
great  perplexity  was  surging  this  way  and  that  in  his  slow 
brains  —  a  great  struggle  was  waging  in  his  heart.  He  was 
to  choose  between  love  and  ambition  —  nay,  avarice  too 
was  ranged  beside  his  aspiration.  He  felt  himself  an  as- 
sured victor  in  the  competition,  and  he  had  seen  that  saddle 
and  bridle.  They  were  on  exhibition  to-day,  and  to  him 
their  material  and  workmanship  seemed  beyond  expression 
wonderful,  and  elegant,  and  substantial.  He  could  never 
hope  otherwise  to  own  such  accouterments.  His  eyes  would 
never  again  even  rest  upon  such  resplendent  objects,  unless 
indeed  in  Hollis's  possession.  Any  one  who  has  ever  loved 
a  horse  can  appreciate  a  horseman's  dear  desire  that  beauty 
should  go  beautifully  caparisoned.  And  then,  there  was  his 
pride  in  his  own  riding,  and  his  anxiety  to  have  his  pre- 
eminence in  that  accomplishment  acknowledged  and  recog- 
nized by  his  friends,  and,  dearer  triumph  still,  by  his  ene- 
mies. A  terrible  pang  before  he  spoke  again. 

"Look  hyar,  Cynthy,"  he  said  at  last ;  "ef  ye  will  marry 
me,  I  won't  go  back  in  yander  no  more.  I'll  leave  the 
premi-wm  ter  them  ez  kin  git  it." 

"  Ye're  foolish,  Jacob,"  she  replied,  still  fanning  with  the 
yellow  calico  sunbonnet.  "Ain't  I  done  tole  ye,  ez  how  they 
don't  think  nothin'  of  ye  ter  our  house  ?  I  don't  want  all  of 
'em  a-jowin'  at  me,  too." 

"Ye  talk  like  ye  ain't  got  good  sense,  Cynthy,"  said 
Jacob  irritably.  "What's  ter  hender  me  from  hitchin'  up 
my  mare  ter  my  uncle's  wagon  an'  ye  an*  me  a-drivin'  up 
hyar  to  the  Cross-Roads,  fifteen  mile,  and  git  Pa'son  Jones 
ter  marry  us?  We'll  get  the  license  down  hyar  ter  the 
Court-House  afore  we  start.  An'  while  they'll  all  be  a- 
foolin'  away  thar  time  a-ridin'  round  that  thar  ring,  ye  an' 
me  will  be  a-gittin*  married."  Ten  minutes  ago  Jacob  Brice 
did  not  think  riding  around  that  ring  was  such  a  repre- 
hensible waste  of  time.  "What's  ter  hender?  It  don't 
make  no  differ  how  they  jow  then." 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  61 

"I  done  tole  ye,  Jacob,"  said  the  sedate  Cynthia,  still 
fanning  with  the  sunbonnet. 

With  a  sudden  return  of  his  inspiration,  Jacob  retorted, 
affecting  an  air  of  stolid  indifference :  "  Jes'  ez  ye  choose.  I 
won't  hev  ter  ax  Becky  Stiles  twict." 

And  he  turned  to  go. 

"I  never  said  no,  Jacob,"  said  Cynthia  precipitately. 
"I  never  said  ez  how  I  wouldn't  hev  ye." 

"Waal,  then,  jes'  come  along  with  me  right  now  while  I 
hitch  up  the  mare.  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  leave  yer  a-standin* 
hyar.  Ye're  too  skittish.  Time  I  come  back  ye'd  hev  done 
run  away  I  dunno  whar."  A  moment's  pause  and  he  added : 
"Is  ye  a-goin'  ter  stand  thar  all  day,  Cynthy  Hollis,  a- 
lookin'  up  an'  around,  and  a-turnin'  yer  neck  fust  this  way 
and  then  t'other,  an'  a-lookin'  fur  all  the  worl'  like  a  wild 
turkey  in  a  trap,  or  one  o'  them  thar  skeery  young  deer,  or 
sech  senseless  critters?  What  ails  the  gal?" 

"Thar'll  be  nobody  ter  help  along  the  work  ter  our 
house,"  said  Cynthia,  the  weight  of  the  home  difficulties 
bearing  heavily  on  her  conscience. 

"What's  ter  hender  ye  from  a-goin'  down  thar  an* 
lendin'  a  hand  every  wunst  in  a  while  ?  But  ef  ye 're  a-goin' 
ter  stand  thar  like  ye  hedn't  no  more  action  than  a  —  a- 
dunno-what  —  jes'  like  yer  dad,  I  ain't.  I'll  jes'  leave  ye 
a-growed  ter  that  thar  post,  an'  I'll  jes'  light  out  stiddier, 
an'  afore  the  cows  get  ter  Pine  Lick,  I'll  be  thar  too.  Jes' 
ez  ye  choose.  Come  along  ef  ye  wants  ter  come.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  ter  ax  ye  no  more." 

"I'm  a-comin',"  said  Cynthia. 

There  was  great,  though  illogical  rejoicing  on  the  part  of 
the  country  faction  when  the  crowds  were  again  seated, 
tier  above  tier,  in  the  amphitheater,  and  the  riders  were 
once  more  summoned  into  the  arena,  to  discover  from 
Jacob  Brice's  unaccounted-for  absence  that  he  had  with- 
drawn and  left  the  nominee  to  his  chances. 


62  AMERICAN  TYPES 

In  the  ensuing  competition  it  became  very  evident  to  the 
not  altogether  impartially  disposed  judges  that  they  could 
not,  without  incurring  the  suspicions  alike  of  friend  and  foe, 
award  the  premium  to  their  fellow-townsman.  Straight  as 
a  shingle  though  he  might  be,  more  prepossessing  to  the 
eye,  the  ex-cavalryman  of  fifty  battles  was  far  better  trained 
in  all  the  arts  of  horsemanship. 

A  wild  shout  of  joy  burst  from  the  rural  party  when  the 
most  portly  and  rubicund  of  the  portly  and  red-faced 
judges  advanced  into  the  ring  and  decorated  Jenkins  Hollis 
with  the  blue  ribbon.  A  frantic  antistrophe  rent  the  air. 
"Take  it  off ! "  vociferated  the  bitter  town  faction  —"Take 
it  off!" 

A  diversion  was  produced  by  the  refusal  of  the  Colbury 
champion  to  receive  the  empty  honor  of  the  red  ribbon  and 
the  certificate.  Thus  did  he  except  to  the  ruling  of  the 
judges.  In  high  dudgeon  he  faced  about  and  left  the  arena, 
followed  shortly  by  the  decorated  Jenks,  bearing  the  pre- 
cious saddle  and  bridle,  and  going  with  a  wooden  face  to 
receive  the  congratulations  of  his  friends. 

The  entries  for  the  slow  mule  race  had  been  withdrawn 
at  the  last  moment;  and  the  spectators,  balked  of  that 
unique  sport,  and  the  fair  being  virtually  over,  were  rising 
from  their  seats  and  making  their  noisy  preparations  for 
departure.  Before  Jenks  had  cleared  the  fair  building,  be- 
ing somewhat  impeded  by  the  moving  mass  of  humanity,  he 
encountered  one  of  his  neighbors,  a  listless  mountaineer, 
who  spoke  on  this  wise : 

"Does  ye  know  that  thar  gal  o*  yourn  —  that  thar 
Cynthy?" 

Mr.  Hollis  nodded  his  expressionless  head  —  presum- 
ably he  did  know  Cynthia. 

"Waal,"  continued  his  leisurely  interlocutor,  still  inter- 
rogative, "does  ye  know  Jacob  Brice?" 

Ill-starred  association  of  ideas  !  There  was  a  look  of  ap- 
prehension on  Jenkins  Hollis's  wooden  face. 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  63 

"They  Lev  done  got  a  license  down  hyar  ter  the  Court- 
House  an*  gone  a-kitinj  out  on  the  Old  B'ar  road." 

This  was  explicit. 

"Whar's  my  horse?"  exclaimed  Jenks,  appropriating 
"John  Barleycorn"  in  his  haste.  Great  as  was  his  hurry, 
it  was  not  too  imperative  to  prevent  him  from  strapping 
upon  the  horse  the  premium  saddle,  and  inserting  in  his 
mouth  the  new  bit  and  bridle.  And  in  less  than  ten  min- 
utes a  goodly  number  of  recruits  from  the  crowd  assembled 
in  Colbury  were  also  "a-kitin"'  out  on  the  road  to  Old 
Bear,  delighted  with  a  new  excitement,  and  bent  on  run- 
ning down  the  eloping  couple  with  no  more  appreciation  of 
the  sentimental  phase  of  the  question  and  the  tender  illu- 
sions of  love's  young  dream  than  if  Jacob  and  Cynthia  were 
two  mountain  foxes. 

Dawn  the  red-clay  slopes  of  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
"John  Barleycorn"  thunders  with  a  train  of  horsemen  at 
his  heels.  Splash  into  the  clear  fair  stream  whose  trans- 
lucent depths  tell  of  its  birthplace  among  the  mountain 
springs  —  how  the  silver  spray  showers  about  as  the  pur- 
suers surge  through  the  ford  leaving  behind  them  a  foamy 
wake  !  —  and  now  they  are  pressing  hard  up  the  steep  as- 
cent of  the  opposite  bank,  and  galloping  furiously  along  a 
level  stretch  of  road,  with  the  fences  and  trees  whirling  by, 
and  the  September  landscape  flying  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind.  The  chase  leads  past  fields  of  tasseled  Indian  corn, 
with  yellowing  thickly  swathed  ears,  leaning  heavily  from 
the  stalk;  past  wheat-lands,  the  crops  harvested  and  the 
crab-grass  having  its  day  at  last;  past  "woods-lots"  and 
their  black  shadows,  and  out  again  into  the  September  sun- 
shine; past  rickety  little  homes,  not  unlike  Hollis's  own, 
with  tow-headed  children,  exactly  like  his,  standing  with 
wide  eyes,  looking  at  the  rush  and  hurry  of  the  pursuit  — 
sometimes  in  the  ill-kept  yards  a  wood-fire  is  burning  under 
the  boiling  sorghum  kettle,  or  beneath  the  branches  of  the 


64  AMERICAN  TYPES 

orchard  near  at  hand  a  cider-mill  is  crushing  the  juice  out 
of  the  red  and  yellow,  ripe  and  luscious  apples.  Homeward- 
bound  prize  cattle  are  overtaken  —  a  Durham  bull,  re- 
luctantly permitting  himself  to  be  led  into  a  fence  corner 
that  the  hunt  may  sweep  by  unobstructed,  and  turning  his 
proud  blue-ribboned  head  angrily  toward  the  riders  as  if 
indignant  that  anything  except  him  should  absorb  atten- 
tion ;  a  gallant  horse,  with  another  floating  blue  streamer, 
bearing  himself  as  becometh  a  king's  son ;  the  chase  comes 
near  to  crushing  sundry  grunting  porkers  impervious  to 
pride  and  glory  in  any  worldly  distinctions  of  cerulean 
decorations,  and  at  last  is  fain  to  draw  up  and  wait  until  a 
flock  of  silly  over-dressed  sheep,  running  in  frantic  fear 
every  way  but  the  right  way,  can  be  gathered  together  and 
guided  to  a  place  of  safety. 

And  once  more,  forward ;  past  white  frame  houses  with 
porches,  and  vine-grown  verandas,  and  well-tended  gar- 
dens, and  groves  of  oak  and  beech  and  hickory  trees  — 
"John  Barleycorn"  makes  an  ineffectual  but  gallant 
struggle  to  get  in  at  the  large  white  gate  of  one  of  these 
comfortable  places,  Squire  Goodlet's  home,  but  he  is  urged 
back  into  the  road,  and  again  the  pursuit  sweeps  on.  Those 
blue  mountains,  the  long  parallel  ranges  of  Old  Bear  and 
his  brothers,  seem  no  more  a  misty,  uncertain  mirage 
against  the  delicious,  indefinable  tints  of  the  horizon. 
Sharply  outlined  they  are  now,  with  dark,  irregular  shad- 
ows upon  their  precipitous  slopes  which  tell  of  wild  ra- 
vines, and  rock-lined  gorges,  and  swirling  mountain  tor- 
rents, and  great,  beetling,  gray  crags.  A  breath  of  balsams 
comes  on  the  freshening  wind  —  the  lungs  expand  to  meet 
it.  There  is  a  new  aspect  in  the  scene ;  a  revivifying  cur- 
rent thrills  through  the  blood ;  a  sudden  ideal  beauty  de- 
scends on  prosaic  creation. 

"Tears  like  I  can't  git  my  breath  good  in  them  flat 
countries,"  says  Jenkins  Hollis  to  himself,  as  "John  Bar- 


TAKING  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  65 

leycorn"  improves  his  speed  under  the  exhilarating  influ- 
ence of  the  wind.  "  I'm  nigh  on  to  sifflicated  every  time  I 
goes  down  yander  ter  Colbury  "  (with  a  jerk  of  his  wooden 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  village). 

Long  stretches  of  woods  are  on  either  side  of  theTroad 
now,  with  no  sign  of  the  changing  season  in  the  foliage  save 
the  slender,  pointed,  scarlet  leaves  and  creamy  plumes  of 
the  sourwood,  gleaming  here  and  there;  and  presently 
another  panorama  of  open  country  unrolls  to  the  view. 
Two  or  three  frame  houses  appear  with  gardens  and  or- 
chards, a  number  of  humble  log  cabins,  and  a  dingy  little 
store,  and  the  Cross-Roads  are  reached.  And  here  the  con- 
clusive intelligence  meets  the  party  that  Jacob  and  Cynthia 
were  married  by  Parson  Jones  an  hour  ago,  and  were  still 
"a-kitin',"  at  last  accounts,  out  on  the  road  to  Old  Bear. 

The  pursuit  stayed  its  ardor.  On  the  auspicious  day 
when  Jenkins  Hollis  took  the  blue  ribbon  at  the  County 
Fair  .and  won  the  saddle  and  bridle,  he  lost  his  daughter. 

They  saw  Cynthia  no  more  until  late  in  the  autumn, 
when  she  came,  without  a  word  of  self-justification  or 
apology  for  her  conduct,  to  lend  her  mother  a  helping  hand 
in  spinning  and  weaving  her  little  brothers'  and  sisters' 
clothes.  And  gradually  the  eclat  attendant  upon  her  nup- 
tials was  forgotten,  except  that  Mrs.  Hollis  now  and  then 
remarks  that  she  "  dunno  how  we  could  hev  bore  up  ag'in' 
Cynthy's  a-runnin'  away  like  she  done,  ef  it  hedn't  a-been 
fur  that  thar  saddle  an'  bridle  an'  takin'  the  blue  ribbon  at 
the  County  Fair." 


BEN  AND  JUDAS1 

BY  MAURICE  THOMPSON 

ON  a  dark  and  stormy  summer  night,  early  in  the  present 
century,  two  male  children  were  born  on  the  Wilson  plan- 
tation in  middle  Georgia.  One  of  the  babes  carne  into  the 
world  covered  with  a  skin  as  black  as  the  night,  the  other 
was  of  that  complexion  known  as  sandy ;  one  was  born  a 
slave,  the  other  a  free  American  citizen.  Two  such  screech- 
ing and  squalling  infants  never  before  or  since  assaulted 
simultaneously  the  peace  of  the  world.  Such  lungs  had 
they,  and  such  vocal  chords,  that  cabin  and  mansion  fairly 
shook  with  their  boisterous  and  unrhythmical  wailing.  The 
white  mother  died,  leaving  her  chubby,  kicking,  bawling 
offspring  to  share  the  breast  of  the  more  fortunate  colored 
matron  with  the  fat,  black,  howling  hereditary  dependent 
thereto;  and  so  Ben  and  Judas,  master  and  slave,  began 
their  companionship  at  the  very  fountain  of  life.  They 
grew,  as  it  were,  arm  in  arm  and  quite  apace  with  each 
other,  as  healthy  boys  will,  crawling,  then  toddling,  anon 
running  on  the  sandy  lawn  between  the  cabin  and  the  man- 
sion, often  quarreling,  sometimes  fighting  vigorously.  Soon 
enough,  however,  Judas  discovered  that,  by  some  invisible 
and  inscrutable  decree,  he  was  slave  to  Ben,  and  Ben  be- 
came aware  that  he  was  rightful  master  to  Judas.  The 
conditions  adjusted  themselves  to  the  lives  of  the  boys  in  a 
most  peculiar  way.  The  twain  became  almost  inseparable, 
and  grew  up  so  intimately  that  Judas  looked  like  the  black 
shadow  of  Ben.  If  one  rode  a  horse,  the  other  rode  a  mule ; 
if  the  white  boy  habitually  set  his  hat  far  back  on  his  head, 

Reprinted  by  permission  from  Stories  of  the  Cherokee  Hills,  by 
Maurice  Thompson.    Copyright  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  67 

the  negro  did  the  same ;  if  Ben  went  swimming  or  fishing, 
there  went  Judas  also.  And  yet  Ben  was  forever  scolding 
Judas  and  threatening  to  whip  him,  a  proceeding  treated 
quite  respectfully  and  as  a  matter  of  course  by  the  slave. 
Wherever  they  went  Ben  walked  a  pace  or  two  in  advance 
of  Judas,  who  followed,  however,  with  exactly  the  conse- 
quential air  of  his  master,  and  with  a  step  timed  to  every 
peculiarity  observable  in  the  pace  set  by  his  leader.  Ben's 
father,  who  became  dissipated  and  careless  after  his  wife's 
death,  left  the  boy  to  come  up  rather  loosely,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  make  a  note  of  the  constantly  growing  familiarity 
between  the  two  youths ;  nor  did  any  person  chance  to  ob- 
serve how  much  alike  they  were  becoming  as  time  slipped 
away.  Ben's  education  was  neglected,  albeit  now  and 
again  a  tutor  was  brought  to  the  Wilson  place,  and  some 
effort  was  made  to  soften  the  crust  of  ignorance  which  was 
forming  around  the  lad's  mind.  Stormy  and  self-willed, 
with  a  peculiar  facility  in  the  rapid  selection  and  instan- 
taneous use  of  the  most  picturesque  and  outlandish  ex- 
pletives, Ben  drove  these  adventurous  disciples  of  learning 
one  by  one  from  the  place,  and  at  length  grew  to  manhood 
and  to  be  master  of  the  Wilson  plantation  (when  his  father 
died)  without  having  changed  in  the  least  the  manner  of 
his  life.  He  did  not  marry,  nor  did  he  think  of  marriage, 
but  grew  stout  and  round-shouldered,  stormed  and  raved 
when  he  felt  like  it,  threatened  all  the  negroes,  whipped 
not  one  of  them,  and  so  went  along  into  middle  life,  and 
beyond,  with  Judas  treading  as  exactly  as  possible  in  his 
footprints. 

They  grew  prematurely  old,  these  two  men :  the  master's 
white  hair  was  matched  by  the  slave's  snowy  wool ;  they 
both  walked  with  a  shuffling  gait,  and  their  faces  gradually 
took  on  a  network  of  wrinkles ;  neither  wore  any  beard.  To 
this  day  it  remains  doubtful  which  was  indebted  most  to 
the  other  in  the  matter  of  borrowed  characteristics.  The 


68  AMERICAN  TYPES 

negro  hoarded  up  the  white  man's  words,  especially  the 
polysyllabic  ones,  and  in  turn  the  white  man  adopted  in  an 
elusive,  modified  way  the  negro's  pronunciation  and  ges- 
tures. If  the  African  apostatized  and  fell  away  from  the 
grace  of  a  savage  taste  to  like  soda  biscuits  and  very  sweet 
coffee,  the  American  of  Scotch  descent  dropped  so  low  in 
barbarity  that  he  became  a  confirmed  'possum-eater.  Ben 
Wilson  could  read,  after  a  fashion,  and  had  a  taste  for  ro- 
mance of  the  swashbuckler,  kidnap-a-heroine  sort.  Judas 
was  a  good  listener,  as  his  master  mouthed  these  wonder- 
ful stories  aloud,  and  his  hereditary  Congo  imagination, 
crude  but  powerful,  was  fed  and  strengthened  by  the 
pabulum  thus  absorbed. 

It  was  a  picture  worth  seeing,  worth  sketching  in  pure 
colors  and  setting  in  an  imperishable  frame,  that  group, 
the  master,  the  slave,  and  the  dog  Chawm.  Chawm  is  a 
name  boiled  down  from  "chew  them";  as  a  Latin  com- 
mentator would  put  it :  chew  them,  vel  chaw  them,  vel 
chaw  'em,  vel  chawm.  He  was  a  copperas-yellow  cur  of 
middle  size  and  indefinite  age,  who  loved  to  lie  at  the  feet 
of  his  two  masters  and  snap  at  the  flies.  This  trio,  when 
they  came  together  for  a  literary  purpose,  usually  occupied 
that  part  of  the  old  vine-covered  veranda  which  caught  the 
black  afternoon  shade  of  the  Wilson  mansion.  In  paren- 
thesis let  me  say  that  I  use  this  word  mansion  out  of  cour- 
tesy, for  the  house  was  small  and  dilapidated ;  the  custom 
of  the  country  made  it  a  mansion,  just  as  Ben  Wilson  was 
made  Colonel  Ben. 

There  they  were,  the  white,  the  black,  and  the  dog,  en- 
joying a  certain  story  of  medieval  days,  about  a  nameless, 
terrible  knight-errant  who  had  stolen  and  borne  away  the 
beautiful  Rosamond ;  and  about  the  slender,  graceful  youth 
who  buckled  his  heavy  armor  on  to  ride  off  in  melodra- 
matic pursuit.  Judas  listened  with  eyes  half  closed  and 
mouth  agape;  Chawm  was  panting,  possibly  with  excite- 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  69 

ment,  his  red  tongue  lolling  and  weltering,  and  his  kindly 
brown  eyes  upturned  to  watch  the  motions  of  Ben's  lei- 
surely lips.  There  was  a  wayward  breeze,  a  desultory  satin 
rustle,  in  the  vine-leaves.  The  sky  was  cloudless,  the  red 
country  road  hot  and  dusty,  the  mansion  all  silent  within. 
Some  negro  ploughmen  were  singing  plaintively  far  off  in  a 
cornfield.  The  eyes  of  Judas  grew  blissfully  heavy,  closed 
themselves,  his  under  jaw  fell  lower,  he  snored  in  a  deep, 
mellow,  well-satisfied  key.  Ben  ceased  reading  and  looked 
at  the  sleepers,  —  for  Chawm,  too,  had  fallen  into  a  light 
doze. 

"Dad  blast  yer  lazy  hides !  Wake  erp  yer,  er  I'll  thrash 
ye  till  ye  don't  know  yerselves  !  Wake  up,  I  say ! "  Ben's 
voice  started  echoes  in  every  direction.  Chawm  sprung  to 
his  feet,  Judas  caught  his  breath  with  an  inward  snort  and 
started  up,  glaring  inquiringly  at  his  raging  master. 

"Yer  jes'  go  to  that  watermillion  patch  and  git  to  yer 
hoein'  of  them  vines  mighty  fast,  er  I'll  whale  enough  hide 
off'm  yer  to  half-sole  my  boots,  yer  lazy,  good-fer-nothin', 
low-down,  sleepy-headed,  snorin',  flop-yeared" —  He  hesi- 
tated, rummaged  in  his  memory  for  yet  another  adjective. 
Meantime,  Judas  had  scrambled  up  unsteadily,  and  was 
saying,  "Yah  sah,  yah  sah,"  as  fast  as  ever  he  could,  and 
bowing  apologetically  while  his  hands  performed  rapid  de- 
precatory gestures. 

"Move  off,  I  say  !"  thundered  Ben. 

Chawm,  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  followed  Judas, 
who  went  in  search  of  his  hoe,  and  soon  after  the  negro  was 
heard  singing  a  camp-meeting  song  over  in  the  melon 
patch : 

"Ya-a-as,  my  mother's  over  yander, 
Ya-a-as,  my  mother's  over  yander, 
Ya-a-as,  my  mother's  over  yander, 
On  de  oder  sho'." 

To  any  casual  observer  who  for  a  series  of  years  had 


70  AMERICAN  TYPES 

chanced  now  and  again  to  see  these  twain,  it  must  have 
appeared  that  Ben  Wilson's  chief  aim  in  life  was  to  storm 
at  Judas,  and  that  Judas,  not  daring  to  respond  in  kind 
directly  to  the  voluble  raging  of  his  master,  lived  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  singing  religious  songs  and  heaping  male- 
dictions on  Bolus,  his  mule.  If  Ben  desired  his  horse  sad- 
dled and  brought  to  him,  he  issued  the  order  somewhat  as 
follows : 

"Judas !  Hey  there,  ye  ole  hump-backed  scamp !  How 
long  air  ye  a-goin'  to  be  a-f  etchin*  me  that  hoss  ?  Hurry 
up !  Step  lively,  er  I'll  tie  ye  up  an*  jest  whale  the  whole 
skin  off 'm  ye !  Trot  lively,  I  say ! " 

Really,  what  did  Judas  care  if  Ben  spoke  thus  to  him  ? 
The  master  never  had  struck  the  slave  in  anger  since  the 
days  when  they  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  their  childish  fisti- 
cuffs. These  threats  were  the  merest  mouthing,  and  Judas 
knew  it  very  well. 

"  Yah,  dar !  Yo*  Bolus !  yo*  ole  rib-nosed,  so'-eyed, 
knock-kneed,  pigeon-toed  t'ief !  I  jes'  wa'  yo'  out  wid  er 
fence-rail,  ef  yo'  don'  step  pow'ful  libely  now;  sho's  yo' 
bo'nljestwill!" 

This  was  the  echo  sent  back  from  the  rickety  stables  by 
Judas  to  the  ears  of  his  master,  who  sat  smoking  his  short 
pipe  on  the  sunken  veranda  under  his  vine  and  close  to  his 
gnarled  fig-tree.  The  voice  was  meant  to  sound  very  sav- 
age ;  but  in  spite  of  Judas  it  would  be  melodious  and  unim- 
pressive, a  mere  echo  and  nothing  more  —  vox,  et  praterea 
nihil. 

Ben  always  chuckled  reflectively  when  he  heard  Judas 
roaring  like  that.  He  could  not  have  said  just  why  he 
chuckled ;  perhaps  it  was  mere  force  of  habit. 

"Dad  blast  that  fool  nigger !"  he  would  mutter  below  his 
breath.  "Puts  me  in  mind  of  a  hongry  mule  a-brayin'  fer 
fodder.  I'll  skin  'im  alive  fer  it  yet." 
4    "Consoun*  Mars'  Ben !  Better  keep  he  ole  mouf  shet," 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  71 

Judas  would  growl ;  but  neither  ever  heard  the  side  remarks 
of  the  other.  Indeed,  in  a  certain  restricted  and  abnormal 
way  they  were  very  tender  of  each  other's  feelings.  The 
older  they  grew  the  nearer  came  these  two  men  together. 
It  was  as  if,  setting  out  from  widely  separated  birthrights, 
they  had  journeyed  towards  the  same  end,  and  thus,  their 
paths  converging,  they  were  at  last  to  lie  down  in  graves 
dug  side  by  side. 

But  no  matter  if  their  cradle  was  a  common  one,  and  not- 
withstanding that  their  footsteps  kept  such  even  time,  Ben 
was  master,  Judas  slave.  They  were  differentiated  at  this 
one  point,  and  at  another,  the  point  of  color,  irrevocably, 
hopelessly.  As  other  differences  were  sloughed;  as  atom  by 
atom  their  lines  blended  together;  as  strange  attachments, 
like  the  feelers  of  vines,  grew  between  the'm;  and  as  the 
license  of  familiarity  took  possession  of  them  more  and 
more,  the  attitude  of  the  master  partook  of  tyranny  in  a 
greater  degree.  I  use  the  word  "attitude,"  because  it  ex- 
presses precisely  my  meaning.  Ben  Wilson's  tyranny  was 
an  attitude,  nothing  more.  Judas  never  had  seen  the  mo- 
ment when  he  was  afraid  of  his  master;  still,  there  was  a 
line  over  which  he  dared  not  step  —  the  line  of  downright 
disobedience.  In  some  obscure  way  the  negro  felt  the  weak- 
ness of  the  white  man's  character,  from  which  a  stream  of 
flashing,  rumbling  threats  had  poured  for  a  lifetime;  he 
knew  that  Ben  Wilson  was  a  harmless  blusterer,  who  was 
scarcely  aware  of  his  own  windy  utterances,  and  yet  he 
hesitated  to  admit  that  he  knew  it  —  nay,  he  forced  him- 
self to  be  proud  of  his  master's  prodigious  temperamental 
expansions.  He  felt  his  own  importance  in  the  world  barely 
below  that  of  the  man  who  owned  him,  and  deep  in  his 
old  heart  stirred  the  delicious  dream  of  freedom.  What  a 
dream!  Amorphous  as  a  cloud,  and  rosy  as  ever  morning 
vapor  was,  it  informed  his  soul  with  vague,  haunting  per- 
fumes and  nameless  strains  of  song.  Strange  that  so  crude 


72  AMERICAN  TYPES 

a  being  could  absorb  such  an  element  into  the  innermost 
tissues  of  his  life !  Judas  had  a  conscience,  rudimentary, 
indeed,  but  insistent,  which  gnawed  him  frightfully  at 
times ;  not  for  stealing, —  he  was  callous  to  that, —  but  for 
rebellion,  which  he  could  not  cast  out  of  him  entirely.  Oc- 
casionally he  soliloquized : 

"  Ef  I  could  jest  be  de  mars'  erwhile  an*  Mars'  Ben  be  de 
nigger,  bress  de  good  Lor*  but  wouldn't  I  jest  mor'  'n  mek 
'im  bounce  erroun'  one  time !  Sorty  fink  I'd  wake  'im  up 
afore  day,  an5  wouldn't  I  cuss  'im  an'  'buse  'im  an'  rah  an' 
cha'ge  at  'im  tell  he  know  'zactly  how  it  was  hese'f !  Yo* 
may  say  so,  honey,  dat  yo'  may ! " 

Following  treasonable  thoughts  like  these  came  bitings 
by  the  hot  teeth  of  the  poor  slave's  conscience,  all  the 
deeper  and  crueler  by  contrast  with  the  love  forever  up- 
gushing  to  be  lavished  on  his  truly  indulgent,  but  strongly 
exasperating  master. 

"Lor',  do  forgib  po'  ole  Judas,"  he  would  pray,  "kase  he 
been  er  jokin'  ter  hese'f  'bout  er  pow'ful  ticklish  ci'cum- 
stance,  sho'  's  yo'  bo'n,  Lor' ;  an'  he  no  business  trompin' 
roun'  er  ole  well  in  de  night.  Git  he  neck  broke,  sho' !" 

Notwithstanding  conscience  and  prayer,  however,  the 
thought  grew  clearer  and  waxed  more  vigorous  in  the  heart 
of  Judas  as  the  years  slipped  by  and  Ben  gradually  in- 
creased his  scolding.  The  more  he  fought  it  the  closer  clung 
to  him  the  vision  of  that  revolution  which  would  turn  him 
on  top  and  Ben  below,  if  but  for  a  few  moments  of  delirious 
triumph. 

"Lor',  but  wouldn't  Mars'  Ben  hate  'r  hab  dis  ole  nigger 
er  cha'gin'  an'  er  rantin'  an'  er  yellin'  at  'im,  an'  jest  er 
cussin'  'im  like  de  berry  debil  fo*  eberyt'ing  'at's  mean,  an* 
de  sweat  jest  er  rollin'  off'm  'im  an'  'im  jest  er  linkin'  down 
ter  wo'k,  an'  me  jest  eberlastin'ly  an'  outlandishly  er 
gibbin'  'im  der  limmer  jaw  fo'  he  laziness  an'  he  dog-gone 
general  no  'countness !  Ef  dat  wouldn't  be  satisfactions! 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  73 

ter  dis  yer  darkey,  den  I  dunno  nuffin'  't  all  'bout  it.  Dat's 
his  way  er  doin'  me,  an'  it  seem  lak  my  time  or  ter  be  comin' 
erlong  pooty  soon  ter  do  'im  dat  er  way  er  leetle,  detail 
take  de  nigger  ef  it  don't ! " 

In  good  truth,  however,  Judas  had  no  right  to  complain 
of  hard  work ;  he  did  not  earn  his  salt.  A  large  part  of  the 
time  he  and  his  master  occupied  with  angling  in  the  rivulet 
hard  by,  wherein  catfish  were  the  chief  game.  Side  by  side 
on  the  sandy  bank  of  the  stream  the  twain  looked  like  two 
frogs  ready  to  leap  into  the  water,  so  expectant  and  eager 
were  their  wrinkled  faces  and  protruding  eyes ;  so  comically 
set  akimbo  their  arms  and  legs.  With  little  art  they  cast 
and  recast  their  clumsy  bait  of  bacon-rind,  exchanging  few 
words,  but  enjoying,  doubtless,  a  sense  of  subtile  compan- 
ionship peculiarly  satisfying. 

"Airy  a  bite,  Judas?" 

"No,  sah." 

''Too  lazy  to  keep  yer  hook  baited?" 

/No,  sah." 

A  while  of  silence,  the  river  swashing  dreamily,  the  sun- 
shine shimmering  far  along  the  slowly  lapsing  current; 
then  Judas  begins  humming  a  revival  tune. 

"  Shet  yer  mouth ;  stop  that  infernal  howlin',  yer  blasted 
old  eejit,  er  I'll  take  this  yer  fish-pole  an'  I'll  nat 'rally  lam 
the  life  out  of  ye  !"  storms  the  master.  "  Ye'll  scare  all  the 
fish  till  they'll  go  clean  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Hain't  ye 
got  a  strifiin'  of  sense  left  ?  " 

The  slave  sulks  in  silence.  Ten  minutes  later  Ben  takes 
out  a  plug  of  bright,  greasy-looking  navy  tobacco,  and  after 
biting  off  a  liberal  chew  says,  in  a  very  soft  voice : 

"Here,  Jude,  try  some  of  my  tobacker,  an'  maybe  yer 
luck'll  change." 

Judas  fills  his  cheek  with  the  comforting  weed  and  gazes 
with  expectant  contentment  into  the  stream,  but  the  luck 
continues  much  the  same.  The  wind  may  blow  a  trifle 


74  AMERICAN  TYPES 

sweeter,  fluting  an  old  Pan-pipe  tune  in  a  half-whisper 
through  the  fringe  of  shining  reeds,  and  the  thrushes  may 
trill  suddenly  a  strange,  soft  phrase  from  the  dark  foliage 
of  the  grove  hard  by ;  still,  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  voices 
of  nature  and  all  unaware  of  their  own  picturesqueness, 
without  a  nibble  to  encourage  them,  the  two  white-haired 
men  watch  away  the  golden  afternoon.  At  last,  just  as 
Judas  has  given  up  and  is  winding  his  line  around  his  pole, 
Ben  yanks  out  a  slimy,  wriggling,  prickly  catfish,  and  his 
round  face  flings  forth  through  its  screen  of  wrinkles  a 
epray  of  sudden  excitement. 

"Grab  'im,  Judas !  Grab  'im,  ye  lubberly  old  lout  ye ! 
What  ye  doin'  a-grinnin'  an*  a-gazin'  an*  that  fish  a-flop- 
pin'  right  back  —  grab  'im  !  If  ye  do  let  'im  get  away,  I'll 
break  yer  old  neck  an*  pull  out  yer  backbone  —  grab  'im, 
I  say!" 

Judas  scrambles  after  the  fish,  sprawling  and  grabbing, 
while  it  actively  flops  about  in  the  sand.  It  spears  him 
cruelly  till  the  red  blood  is  spattered  over  his  great  rusty 
black  hands,  but  he  captures  it  finally  and  puts  a  stick 
through  its  gills. 

On  many  and  many  an  afternoon  they  trudged  home- 
ward together  in  the  softening  light,  Judas  carrying  both 
rods  on  his  shoulder,  the  bait-cups  in  his  hands,  and  the 
string  of  fish,  if  there  were  any,  dangling  somewhere  about 
his  squat  person.  The  black  man  might  have  been  the  in- 
carnate shadow  of  the  white  one,  so  much  were  they  alike 
in  everything  but  color.  Even  to  a  slight  limp  of  the  left 
leg,  their  movements  were  the  same.  Each  had  a  peculiar 
fashion  of  setting  his  right  elbow  at  a  certain  angle,  and  of 
elevating  slightly  the  right  shoulder.  Precisely  alike  sat 
their  well-worn  straw  hats  far  over  on  the  back  of  their 
heads. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1860  that  Ben  took  the  measles 
and  came  near  to  death.  Judas  nursed  his  master  with  a 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  75 

faithfulness  that  knew  not  the  shadow  of  abatement  until 
the  disease  had  spent  its  force  and  Ben  began  to  con- 
valesce.  With  the  turn  of  the  tide  which  bore  him  back 
from  the  shore  of  death  the  master  recovered  his  tongue, 
and  grew  refractory  and  abusive  inversely  as  the  negro  was 
silent  and  obedient.  He  exhausted  upon  poor  Judas,  over 
and  over  again,  the  vocabulary  of  vituperative  epithets  at 
his  command.  When  Ben  was  quite  well  Judas  lay  down 
with  the  disease. 

"A  nigger  with  the  measles!  Well,  I'll  be  dern!  Ye're 
gone,  Jude  —  gone  fer  sure.  Measles  nearly  always  kills  a 
nigger,  an*  ye  mought  es  well  begin  ter  wall  up  yer  eyes  an' 
wiggle  yer  toes." 

Ben  uttered  these  consoling  words  as  he  entered  his  old 
slave's  cabin  and  stood  beside  the  low  bed.  "Not  much 
use  ter  do  anythin'  fer  ye's  I  know  of  —  bound  ter  go  this 
time.  Don't  ye  feel  a  sort  of  dyin*  sensation  in  yer  blamed 
old  bones  already  ?  " 

But  Judas  was  nursed  by  his  master  as  a  child  by  its 
mother.  Never  was  man  better  cared  for  night  and  day. 
Ben's  whole  life  for  the  time  was  centered  in  the  one 
thought  of  saving  the  slave.  In  this  he  was  absolutely  un- 
selfish and  at  last  successful. 

As  Judas  grew  better,  after  the  crisis  was  passed,  he  did 
not  fail  to  follow  his  master's  example  and  make  himself  as 
troublesome  as  possible.  Nothing  was  good  enough  for 
him ;  none  of  his  food  was  properly  prepared  or  served,  his 
bed  was  not  right,  he  wanted  water  from  a  certain  distant 
spring,  he  grumbled  at  Ben  without  reason,  and  grew  more 
abusive  and  personal  daily.  At  last  one  afternoon  Ben 
came  out  of  the  cabin  with  a  very  peculiar  look  on  his  face. 
He  stopped  as  he  left  the  threshold,  and  with  his  hands  in 
his  trousers'  pockets  and  his  head  thrown  back,  he  whistled 
a  low,  gentle  note. 

"Well,  I'll  everlastia'ly  jest  be  dad  burned!"  he  ex- 


76  AMERICAN  TYPES 

claimed.  Then  he  puffed  out  his  wrinkled  cheeks  till  they 
looked  like  two  freckled  bladders.  "  Who'd  'a'  thought  it ! " 
He  chuckled  long  and  low,  looking  down  at  his  boots  and 
then  up  at  the  sky.  "Cussed  me !  Cussed  me !  The  blame 
old  rooster  a-cussin'  me  !  Don't  seem  possible,  but  he  did 
all  the  same.  Gamest  nigger  I  ever  seen !" 

It  must  have  been  a  revelation  to  the  master  when  the 
old  slave  actually  swore  at  him  and  cursed  him  vigorously. 
Ben  went  about  chuckling  retrospectively  and  muttering 
to  himself : 

"The  old  coon,  he  cussed  me !" 

Next  day  for  dinner  Judas  had  chicken  pie  and  dump- 
lings, his  favorite  pot,  and  Ben  brought  some  old  peach 
brandy  from  the  cellar  and  poured  it  for  him  with  his  own 
hand. 

In  due  time  the  negro  got  well  and  the  two  resumed 
their  old  life,  a  little  feebler,  a  trifle  more  stoop  in  their 
shoulders,  their  voices  huskier,  but  yet  quite  as  happy  as 
before. 

The  watermelon-patch  has  ever  been  the  jewel  on  the 
breast  of  the  Georgia  plantation.  "  What  is  home  without  a 
watermelon?"  runs  the  well-known  phrase,  and  in  sooth 
what  cool,  delicious  suggestions  run  with  it!  Ben  and 
Judas  each  had  a  patch,  year  in  and  year  out.  Not  that 
Ben  ever  hoed  in  his ;  but  he  made  Judas  keep  it  free  of 
weeds.  Here  was  a  source  of  trouble;  for  invariably  the 
negro's  patch  was  better,  the  melons  were  the  larger  and 
finer.  Scold  and  storm  and  threaten  as  he  might,  Ben 
could  not  change  this,  nor  could  he  convince  his  slave  that 
there  was  anything  at  all  strange  in  the  matter. 

"How  I  gwine  fin'  out  'bout  what  mek  yo'  watermillions 
so  runty  an*  so  scrunty  ?"  Judas  exclaimed.  "Hain't  I  jest 
hoed  'em  an'  ploughed  'em  an'  took  care  ob  'em  an'  try  ter 
mek  'em  do  somefin'?  But  dey  jest  kinder  wommux  an' 
squommux  erlong  an'  don't  grow  wof  er  dern !  I  jest  sw'a'  I 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  77 

can't  holp  it,  Mars'  Ben,  ef  yo'  got  no  luck  erbout  yo'  no- 
how !  Water-millions  grows  ter  luck,  not  ter  de  hoe." 

"Luck!  Luck!"  bawled  Ben,  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
negro.  "  Luck !  yer  old  lump  er  lamp-black  —  yer  old,  lazy, 
sneakin'  scamp  !  I'll  show  ye  about  luck !  Ef  I  don't  have  a 
good  patch  of  watermillions  next  year  I'll  skin  ye  alive,  see 
ef  I  don't,  ye  old  villain  ye  ! " 

It  was  one  of  Ben's  greatest  luxuries  to  sit  on  the  top  rail 
of  the  worm-fence  which  enclosed  the  melon-patch,  his  own 
particular  patch,  and  superintend  the  hoeing  thereof.  To 
Judas  this  was  a  bitter  ordeal,  and  its  particular  tang  grew 
more  offensive  year  by  year,  as  the  half -smothered  longing 
to.be  master,  if  but  for  a  moment,  gripped  his  imagination 
closer  and  closer. 

"Ef  I  jest  could  set  up  dah  on  dat  fence  an'  cuss  'iin  while 
he  hoed,  an'  ef  I  jest  could  one  time  see  'im  er  hus'lin' 
erroun'  w'en  I  tole  'im,  dis  nigger'd  be  ready  ter  die  right 
den.  Lor',  I'd  give  it  to  'im  good ! " 

Any  observer  a  trifle  sharper  than  Ben  would  have  read 
Judas's  thoughts  as  he  ruminated  thus ;  but  Ben  was  not  a 
student  of  human  nature  —  or,  for  that  matter,  any  other 
nature  —  and  he  scolded  away  merely  to  give  vent  to  the 
pressure  of  habit. 

One  morning,  when  the  melon  vines  were  young  —  it 
must  have  been  late  in  April  —  Judas  leaned  on  his  hoe- 
handle,  and  looking  up  at  Ben,  who  sat  on  the  fence-top, 
as  usual,  smoking  his  short  pipe,  he  remarked : 

"Don't  ye  yer  dat  mockin'-bird  er  tee-diddlin'  an*  er  too- 
doodlin',  Mars'  Ben?" 

"I'll  tee-diddle  an'  too-doodle  ye,  ef  ye  don't  keep  on 
a-hoein' ! "  raged  Ben.  "This  year  I'm  bound  ter  have  some 
big  melons,  ef  I  have  ter  wear  ye  out  ter  do  it ! " 

Judas  sprung  to  work,  and  for  about  a  minute  hoed  des- 
perately ;  then  looking  up  again  he  said,  "  De  feesh  allus 
bites  bestest  w'en  de  mockm'-birds  tee-diddles  an'  too- 
doodles  dat  a  way." 


78  AMERICAN  TYPES 

Such  a  flood  of  abusive  eloquence  as  Ben  now  let  go  upon 
the  balmy  morning  air  would  have  surprised  and  over- 
whelmed a  less  adequately  fortified  soul  than  that  of  Judas. 
The  negro,  however,  was  well  prepared  for  the  onslaught, 
and  received  it  with  most  industrious  though  indifferent 
silence.  When  the  master  had  exhausted  both  his  breath 
and  his  vocabulary,  the  negro  turned  up  his  rheumy  eyes 
and  suggested  that  "feesh  ain't  gwine  ter  bite  eber'  day 
like  dey'll  bite  ter-day."  This  remark  was  made  in  a  tone 
of  voice  expressive  of  absent-mindedness,  and  almost 
instantly  the  speaker  added  dreamily,  leaning  on  his  hoe 
again : 

"Time  do  crawl  off  wid  a  feller's  life  pow'ful  fast,  Mars' 
Ben.  Seem  lak  yistyd'y,  or  day  'fore  yistyd'y,  'at  we's 
leetle  beety  boys.  Don'  yo'  'member  w'en  ole  Bolus  —  dat 
fust  Bolus,  I  mean  —  done  went  an*  kick  de  lof '  outer  de 
new  stable  ?  We's  er  gittin'  pooty  ole,  Mars'  Ben,  pooty 
ole,  ain't  we?" 

"  Yes,  an'  we'll  die  an'  be  buried  an'  resurrected,  ye  old 
vagabond  ye,  before  ye  get  one  hill  of  this  here  patch 
hoed !"  roared  Ben. 

Judas  did  not  move,  but,  wagging  his  head  in  a  dreamy 
way,  said : 

"I  'members  one  time" — here  he  chuckled  softly — "I 
'members  one  time  w'en  we  had  er  fight  an'  I  whirped  yo' ; 
made  yo'  yelp  out  an'  say  *  'Nough,  'nough  !  Take  'im  off ! ' 
an'  Moses,  how  I  wus  er  linkin'  it  ter  yo'  wid  bof  fists  ter 
onct !  Does  yo'  rickermember  dat,  Mars'  Ben  ?  " 

Ben  remembered.  It  was  when  they  were  little  children, 
before  Judas  had  found  out  his  hereditary  limitation,  and 
before  Ben  had  dreamed  of  asserting  the  superiority  in- 
herent in  his  blood.  Somehow  the  retrospect  filled  the 
master's  vision  instantly  with  a  sort  of  Indian-summer 
haze  of  tenderness.  He  forgot  to  scold.  For  some  time 
there  was  silence,  save  that  the  mocking-bird  poured  forth 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  79 

a  song  as  rich  and  plaintive  as  any  ever  heard  by  Sappho 
under  the  rose-bannered  garden  walls  of  Mitylene;  then 
Judas,  with  sudden  energy,  exclaimed : 

"Mars'  Ben,  yo'  nebber  did  whirp  me,  did  yo'?" 

Ben,  having  lapsed  into  retrospective  distance,  did  not 
heed  the  negro's  interrogation,  but  sat  there  on  the  fence 
with  his  pipe-stem  clamped  between  his  teeth.  He  was 
smiling  in  a  mild,  childish  way. 

"No,"  added  Judas,  answering  his  own  question  — "no, 
yos  nebber  whirped  me  in  yo'  life ;  but  I  whirped  yo'  onct 
like  de  berry  debil,  didn't  I,  Mars'  Ben  ?" 

Ben's  hat  was  far  back  on  his  head,  and  his  thin,  white 
hair  shone  like  silver  floss  on  his  wrinkled  forehead  —  the 
expression  of  his  face  that  of  silly  delight  in  a  barren  and 
commonplace  reminiscence. 

"Mars'  Ben,  I  wants  ter  ax  one  leetle  fabor  ob  yo'." 

The  master  clung  to  his  distance  and  his  dream. 

"Heydar!  Mars'  Ben!" 

"Well,  what  yer  want,  yer  old  scarecrow?"  inquired 
Ben,  pulling  himself  together  and  yawning  so  that  he 
dropped  his  pipe,  which  Judas  quickly  restored  to  him. 

"Well,  Mars'  Ben,  'tain't  much  w'at  I  wants,  but  I's 
been  er  wantin'  it  seem  lak  er  thousan'  years." 

Ben  began  to  look  dreamy  again. 

"I  wants  ter  swap  places  wid  yo',  Mars'  Ben,  dat's  w'at 
I  wants,"  continued  Judas,  speaking  rapidly,  as  if  forcing 
out  the  words  against  heavy  pressure  of  restraint.  "I 
wants  ter  set  up  dah  on  dat  fence,  an'  yo'  git  down  yer  an' 
I  cuss  yo',  an'  yo'  jest  hoe  like  de  debil  —  dat's  w'at  I 
wants." 

i  It  was  a  slow  process  by  which  Judas  at  last  forced  upon 
his  master's  comprehension  the  preposterous  proposition 
for  a  temporary  exchange  of  situations.  Ben  could  not 
understand  it  fully  until  it  had  been  insinuated  into  his 
mind  particle  by  particle,  so  to  speak ;  for  the  direct  method 


80  AMERICAN  TYPES 

failed  wholly,  and  the  wily  old  African  resorted  to  subtile 
suggestion  and  elusive  supposititious  illustration  of  his 
desire. 

"We's  been  er  libin*  tergedder  lo!  dese  many  ye'rs, 
Mars'  Ben,  an*  did  I  eber  'fuse  ter  do  anyfing  'at  yo'  axed 
me  ?  No,  sah,  I  neber  did.  Sort  er  seem  lak  yo'  mought  do 
jest  dis  one  leetle  'commodation  fo'  me." 
,  Ben  began  to  grin  in  a  sheepish,  half -fascinated  way  as 
the  proposition  gradually  took  hold  of  his  imagination. 
How  would  it  feel  to  be  a  "nigger"  and  have  a  master 
over  him?  What  sort  of  sensation  would  it  afford  to  be 
compelled  to  do  implicitly  the  will  of  another,  and  that 
other  a  querulous  and  conscienceless  old  sinner  like  Judas  ? 
The  end  of  it  was  that  he  slid  down  from  his  perch  and  took 
the  hoe,  while  Judas  got  up  and  sat  on  the  fence. 

"Han*  me  dat  pipe,"  was  the  first  peremptory  order. 

Ben  winced,  but  gave  up  the  coveted  nicotian  censer. 
^  "Now,  den,  yo'  flop-yeared,  bandy-shanked,  hook-nosed, 
freckle-faced,    wall-eyed,    double-chinned,    bald-headed, 
hump-shouFered  — " 

"Come,  now,  Judas,"  Ben  interrupted,  "I  won't  stan* 
no  sech  langwidges — " 

"HoP  on  dah,  Mars'  Ben,"  cried  Judas,  in  an  injured 
tone.  "  Yo'  p'omised  me  yo'  'd  do  it,  an'  I  knows  yo'  's  not 
gwine  back  on  yo'  wo'd ;  no  Wilson  eber  do  dat." 

Ben  was  abashed.  It  was  true  no  Wilson  ever  broke  a 
promise.  The  Wilsons  were  men  of  honor. 

"Well,  fire  away,"  he  said,  falling  to  work  again.  "Fire 
away!" 

"Hussle  up,  dah !  Hussle  up,  yo'  lazy  ole  vagabon'  yo', 
er  I'll  git  down  f'om  heah,  an'  I'll  w'ar  out  ebery  hic'ry 
sprout  in  de  county  on  yo'  ole  rusty  back !  Git  erlong !  — 
hurry  up !  —  faster !  Don'  yo'  heah  ?  Ef  I  do  come  down 
dah  I'll  jes'  nat'rally  comb  yo'  head  tell  ebery  ha'r  on  it'll 
sw'ar  de  day  ob  judgment  done  come !  I'll  wa'm  yo'  jacket 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  81 

tell  de  dus*  er  comin'  out'n  it'll  look  lak  a  sto'm-cloud ! 
Wiggle  faster,  er  I'll  yank  out  yo'  backbone  an*  mek  er 
trace-chain  out'n  it !  Don'  yo'  heah  me,  Ben  ?  " 

Ben  heard  and  obeyed.  Never  did  hoe  go  faster,  never 
was  soil  so  stirred  and  pulverized.  The  sweat  sprung  from 
every  pore  of  the  man's  skin ;  it  trickled  over  his  face  and 
streamed  from  his  chin,  it  saturated  his  clothes. 

Judas  was  intoxicated  with  delight;  almost  delirious 
with  the  sensation  of  freedom  and  masterhood.  His  elo- 
quence increased  as  the  situation  affected  his  imagination, 
and  his  words  tumbled  forth  in  torrents.  Not  less  was  Ben 
absorbed  and  carried  away.  He  was  a  slave,  Judas  was  his 
master,  the  puppet  must  wriggle  when  the  owner  pulled 
the  strings.  He  worked  furiously.  Judas  forgot  to  smoke 
the  pipe,  but  held  it  in  his  hand  and  made  all  sorts  of 
gestures  with  it. 

"Hit  dem  clods  !  Mash  'em  fine  !"  he  screamed.  "Don* 
look  up,  yo'  ole  poky  tarrypin  yo' !  Ef  yo'  does  I'll  wom- 
mux  de  hide  off'm  yo'  blamed  ole  back  f aster 'n  forty-seben 
shoemakers  kin  peg  it  on  ag'in !  Hussle,  I  tole  yo',  er  I'll 
jest  wring  yo'  neck  an'  tie  yo'  years  in  er  hard  knot !  Yo' 
heah  me  now,  Ben?" 

This  was  bad  enough,  but  not  the  worst,  for  Judas  used 
many  words  and  phrases  not  permissible  in  print.  He 
spared  no  joint  of  his  master's  armor,  he  left  no  vulnerable 
point  unassailed.  The  accumulated  riches  of  a  lifetime 
spent  in  collecting  a  picturesque  vocabulary,  and  the  stored 
force  of  nearly  sixty  years  given  to  private  practice  in  using 
it,  now  served  him  a  full  turn.  In  the  thickest  shower  of  the 
negro's  mingled  threats,  commands,  and  maledictions, 
however,  Ben  quit  work,  and,  leaning  on  his  hoe,  panted 
rapidly.  He  gazed  up  at  Judas  pathetically  and  said : 

"How  that  mockin'-bird  does  tee-diddle  an'too-doodle  !" 

Judas  actually  stopped  short  in  the  mid  career  of  his  elo- 
quence, and  Ben  added : 


82  AMERICAN  TYPES 

"Never  see  sich  signs  for  feesh  a-bitin* ;  did  you,  Judas  ?" 

The  charm  was  broken,  the  farce  was  ended.  A  little 
later  the  two  old  men  might  have  been  seen  with  their  bait- 
cups  and  fishing-poles  in  their  hands  toddling  along  down 
the  slope  to  the  rivulet,  the  white  leading,  the  black  follow- 
ing. They  were  both  rather  abstracted,  it  appeared,  for 
each  cast  in  his  hook  without  any  bacon-rind  on  it,  and  sat 
on  the  stream's  bank  all  the  rest  of  the  forenoon  in  blissf ul 
expectancy  of  an  impossible  nibble. 

One  good  came  of  the  little  episode  at  the  melon-patch. 
The  vine  around  whose  roots  Ben  had  plied  the  hoe  with 
such  vigor  thrived  amazingly,  and  in  due  time  bore  a 
watermelon  of  huge  size,  a  grand  spheroid  as  green  as  emer- 
ald and  as  richly  soft  in  surface  color  as  the  most  costly  old 
velvet. 

"  Got  de  twin  ob  it  down  dah  in  my  patch,"  said  Judas ; 
"jest  es  much  like  it  es  one  bean's  like  anoder  bean.  Yo* 
orter  come  down  an'  see  it,  Mars'  Ben." 

Ben  went,  and  sure  enough,  there  was  a  melon  just  the 
duplicate  of  his  own.  Of  course,  however,  he  claimed  that 
he  saw  some  indices  of  inferiority  in  Judas's  fruit,  but  he 
couldn't  just  point  them  out  —  possibly  the  rind  was  not  as 
healthy-looking,  he  thought,  and  then  the  stem  appeared 
to  be  shriveling.  Judas,  for  his  part,  was  quite  sure  that  his 
master's  melon  would  not  "sweeten  up"  as  his  would,  and 
that  it  would  be  found  lacking  in  that  "jawleeciousness" 
and  that  "fo'-de-Lor'-sake-hand-me-some-moreness"  so 
characteristic  of  those  of  his  own  raising. 

Ben's  pride  in  his  melon  matured  and  ripened  at  the 
same  time  with  the  maturing  and  ripening  of  that  wonder- 
ful globule  of  racy  pulp  and  juice  whose  core  he  longed  to 
see.  After  so  many  failures,  here  at  last  was  his  triumph. 
There  was  a  certain  danger  connected  with  plucking  this 
melon.  It  was  of  a  variety  locally  called  "ice-rind"  on 
account  of  the  thickness  of  the  outer  part  or  shell,  which 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  83 

made  it  very  difficult  to  know  when  it  was  ripe,  and  so  Ben 
dreaded  to  act.  Every  evening  in  the  latest  dusk  of  twi-» 
light  he  would  go  out  and  lean  over  the  patch  fence  to  have 
a  darkling  view  of  his  treasure,  which  thus  seen  was 
mightily  magnified. 

When  the  moment  of  sacrifice  had  come,  Ben  actually 
shrunk  from  the  task  of  plucking  that  melon.  He  leaned  on 
the  fence  until  it  was  quite  dark  and  until  the  moon  had 
begun  to  show  in  the  east  before  he  bethought  him  that 
that  night  was  Judas's  birth-night,  and  then  av  bright  idea 
came  to  him.  He  would  take  the  melon  to  the  old  slave's 
cabin  and  they  would  have  a  feast.  But  when  he  had 
climbed  over  the  fence  and  had  stooped  above  the  huge 
dusky  sphere,  his  heart  failed  him,  and  at  the  same  time 
another  thought  struck  him  with  great  force.  He  straight- 
ened himself  up,  placed  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and  chuckled. 
Just  the  thing !  The  best  joke  on  Judas !  He  would  go  to 
the  negro's  patch,  steal  his  big  melon,  and  share  it  with  him 
on  the  following  day. 

His  own  melon  he  would  keep  a  few  days  longer  to  be 
sure  that  it  had  ripened.  A  very  simple  proceeding,  with- 
out a  thought  of  dishonor  in  it. 

It  was  as  beautiful  and  balmy  a  midsummer  night  as 
ever  fell  upon  the  world.  Ben  felt  its  soft  influence  in  his 
old  blood  as  he  toddled  surreptitiously  along  the  path 
leading  through  a  little  wood  to  Judas's  cabin  and  patch. 
He  was  picturing  in  his  mind  how  foolish  Judas  would  look 
and  how  beaten  he  would  feel  when  he  found  out  that  he 
had  been  feasting  on  his  own  big  melon.  One  might  have 
seen  by  the  increasing  light  of  the  moon  that  Ben's  trellis- 
work  of  facial  wrinkles  could  scarcely  hold  in  the  laughing 
glee  that  was  in  him,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  while  his  mouth 
drew  itself  on  to  a  set,  suppressed  smile.  Chawm  trotted 
along  silently  at  Ben's  heels,  his  tail  drooping  and  his  ears 
hanging  limp.  In  the  distance,  amid  the  hills,  an  owl  was 


84  AMERICAN  TYPES 

hooting  dolefully,  but  the  little  wood  was  as  silent  as  the 
grave.  Suddenly  Ben  heard  a  footfall  coming  up  the  path, 
and  he  slipped  into  the  bushes  just  in  time  to  let  Judas  go 
shuffling  by  all  unaware. 

"The  blamed  old  rooster,"  he  said  to  himself  in  a  tender, 
affectionate  whisper.  "The  blamed  old  rooster !  I  wonder 
what  he's  a-thinkin'  about  jest  now  ? " 

Chawm  slipped  out  and  fell  noiselessly  behind  Judas, 
following  him  on  toward  the  mansion.  Ben  chuckled  with 
deep  satisfaction  as  he  climbed  over  into  Judas's  patch  and 
laid  hands  on  the  negro's  large  melon.  What  a  typical  thief 
he  appeared  as  he  hurried  furtively  along,  stooping  low 
with  his  ill-gotten  load,  his  crooked  shadow  dancing  vaguely 
beside  him !  Over  the  fence  he  toiled  with  difficulty,  the 
melon  was  so  heavy  and  slippery;  then  along  the  path. 
Once  in  the  shadowy  wood,  he  laid  down  his  burden  and 
wiped  his  dewy  face  with  his  sleeve.  He  did  not  realize  how 
excited  he  was ;  it  was  the  first  time  hi  all  his  life  that  he 
had  ever  stolen  anything  even  in  fun.  Every  little  sound 
startled  him  and  made  him  pant.  He  felt  as  if  running  as 
fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him  would  be  the  richest  of  all 
luxuries. 

When  again  he  picked  up  the  melon  and  resumed  his 
way  he  found  his  heart  fluttering  and  his  limbs  weak,  but 
he  hurried  on.  Suddenly  he  halted,  with  a  black  apparition 
barring  the  path  before  him. 

"Judas  !  you  old  coon  !" 

"Mars' Ben!" 

They  leaned  forward  and  glared  at  each  other. 

"Mars'  Ben !  Yo'  been  er  stealin'  my  watermillion !" 

"Judas!  You  thievin'  old  rooster!  You've  stole — " 

Their  voices  blended,  and  such  a  mixture !  The  wood 
resounded.  They  stood  facing  each  other,  as  much  alike  as 
duplicates  in  everything  save  color,  each  clasping  in  his 
arms  the  other's  watermelon.  It  was  a  moment  of  intense 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  85 

surprise,  of  voluble  swearing,  of  picturesque  posturing; 
then  followed  a  sudden  collapse  and  down  fell  both  great, ' 
ripe,  luscious  spheres  with  a  dull,  heavy  bump,  breaking 
open  on  the  ground  and  filling  the  air  with  a  spray  of  sweet 
juice  and  the  faint  luxuriant  aroma  so  dear  to  Georgian 
nostrils.  Chawm  stepped  forward  and  sniffed  idly  and  in- 
differently at  one  of  the  pieces.  A  little  screech-owl  mewed 
plaintively  in  a  bush  hard  by.  Both  men,  having  ex- 
hausted themselves  simultaneously,  began  to  sway  and 
tremble,  their  legs  slowly  giving  way  under  them.  The 
spot  of  moonlight  in  which  they  stood  lent  a  strange  effect 
to  their  bent  and  faltering  forms.  Judas  had  been  more  or 
less  a  thief  all  his  life,  but  this  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  been  caught  in  the  act;  therefore  he  was  as  deeply 
shocked  as  was  Ben.  Down  they  sank  until  they  sat  flat  on 
the  ground  in  the  path  and  facing  each  other,  the  broken 
melons  between  them.  Chawm  took  position  a  little  to  one 
side  and  looked  on  gravely,  as  if  he  felt  the  solemnity  of 
the  occasion. 

Judas  was  first  to  speak. 

"Well,  I  jest  be  'sentially  an'  eberlastin'ly  — " 

"Shet  up  !"  stormed  Ben. 

They  looked  sheepishly  at  each  otner,  while  Chawm 
licked  his  jaws  with  perfunctory  nonchalance.  After  what 
seemed  a  very  long  silence,  Ben  said: 

"  Jude,  ax  a  blessin'  afore  we  eats." 

Judas  hesitated. 

"Did  ye  hear  what  A  was  a-sayin*  for  yer  to  do?"  in- 
quired Ben.  "Ax  a  blessin',  I  say  !" 

The  negro  bowed  his  old  snow-fleeced  head  and  prayed  : 

"Lor*,  hab  mercy  on  two  ole  villyans  an'  w'at  dey  done 
steal  f 'om  one  'nudder.  Spaycially,  Lor',  forgib  Mars'  Ben, 
kase  he  rich  an'  free  an'  he  orter  hab  mo'  honah  'bout  'im 
'an  ter  steal  f 'om  po'  nigger.  I  used  to  fink,  Lor',  dat  Mars' 
Ben's  er  mighty  good  man,  but  seem  lak  yer  lately  he 


86  AMERICAN  TYPES 

gittin*  so  on'ry  'at  yo'll  be  erbleeged  ter  hannel  'im  pooty 
sabage  ef  he  keep  on.  Dey  may  be  'nough  good  lef '  in  'im 
ter  pay  fer  de  trouble  ob  foolin'  'long  wid  'im,  but  hit's 
pow'ful  doubtful,  an'  dat's  er  fac'.  Lor',  I  don't  advise  yo' 
ter  go  much  outer  yo'  way  ter  'commodate  sich  er  outda- 
cious  old  sneak-t'ief  an*  sich  er  — " 

"Judas !"  roared  Ben,  "yer  jest  stop  right  now !" 

"An*  bress  dese  watermillions  w'at  we's  erbout  ter  re- 
ceib,  amen!"  concluded  Judas.  "Try  er  piece  er  dis  here 
solid  core,  Mars'  Ben ;  hit  look  mighty  jawleecious." 

And  so  there  in  the  space  of  moonlight  they  munched, 
with  many  watery  mouthings,  the  sweet  central  hearts  of 
the  pilfered  fruit.  All  around  them  the  birds  stirred  in  their 
sleep,  rustling  the  leaves  and  letting  go  a  few  dreamy 
chirps.  Overhead  a  great  rift  uncovered  the  almost  purple 
sky. 

They  did  not  converse  while  they  were  eating,  but  when 
the  repast  was  ended  Judas  apologized  and  explained  in 
their  joint  behalf : 

"  Yo'  see,  Mars'  Ben,  I's  yo'  nigger  an*  yo'  's  my  marster. 
W'at 's  yo's  is  mine,  an'  w'at 's  mine's  yo's ;  don'  yo'  see  ? 
an'  hit  ain't  no  mo'  harm  'an  no  thin'  fo'  us  ter  steal  f'om 
one  'nudder.  Lor',  Mars'  Ben,  I  been  er  knowin'  all  my 
life  'at  I  was  er  stealin'  f'om  yo' ;  but  I  nebber  dream  'at  it 
was  yo'  'at  was  er  takin'  all  er  my  bestest  watermillions  an' 
t'ings.  'Spec'  we's  'bout  eben  now,  Mars'  Ben.  Ef  yo's  a 
leetle  bit  ahead  ob  me  I's  not  er  keerin' ;  hit's  all  right." 

So  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  parted  for  the  night. 

"Good-night,  Mars'  Ben." 

"Good-night,  Judas." 

It  would  be  cruel  to  follow  them  farther  down  the  road 
of  life,  for  rheumatism  came,  and  then  the  war.  Many  an 
afternoon  the  trio,  Ben,  Judas,  and  Chawm,  sat  on  the  old 
veranda  and  listened  to  the  far-off  thunder  of  battle,  not 
fairly  realizing  its  meaning,  but  feeling  that  in  some  vague 


BEN  AND  JUDAS  87 

way  it  meant  a  great  deal.  After  war,  peace.  After  peace, 
reconstruction.  After  reconstruction,  politics.  Somebody 
took  the  trouble  to  insist  upon  having  Ben  Wilson  go  to 
the  polls  and  vote.  Of  course  Judas  went  with  him.  What 
a  curious-looking  twain  they  were,  tottering  along,  almost 
side  by  side  now,  their  limbs  trembling  and  their  eyes 
nearly  blind ! 
t.  "Got  yer  ticket,  Jude  ?"  inquired  Ben. 

"No,  sah,  dat's  all  right.  Yo'  jest  drap  one  in,  hit'll  do 
fo'  bofe  ob  us,"  answered  Judas.  And  it  was  done. 

They  died  a  year  ago.  Their  graves  are  side  by  side,  and 
so  close  together  that  a  single  slab  might  serve  to  cover 
them  both.  If  I  were  rich  it  should  be  an  imperishable 
monument,  inscribed  simply : 

BEN  AND  JUDAS 
AET.  SEVENTY  YEARS,  ONE  MONTH,  AND  FOURTEEN  DAYS 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS1 
BY  HAMLIN  GARLAND 

A  CORNFIELD  in  July  is  a  sultry  place.  The  soil  is  hot  and 
dry;  the  wind  comes  across  the  lazily  murmuring  leaves 
laden  with  a  warm,  sickening  smell  drawn  from  the  rapidly 
growing,  broad-flung  banners  of  the  corn.  The  sun,  nearly 
vertical,  drops  a  flood  of  dazzling  light  upon  the  field,  over 
which  the  cool  shadows  run,  only  to  make  the  heat  seem 
the  more  intense. 

Julia  Peterson,  faint  with  hunger,  was  toiling  back  and 
forth  between  the  corn-rows,  holding  the  handles  of  the 
double-shovel  corn-plough,  while  her  little  brother  Otto 
rode  the  steaming  horse.  Her  heart  was  full  of  bitterness, 
her  face  flushed  with  heat,  and  her  muscles  aching  with 
fatigue.  The  heat  grew  terrible.  The  corn  came  to  her 
shoulders,  and  not  a  breath  seemed  to  reach  her,  while  the 
sun,  nearing  the  noon  mark,  lay  pitilessly  upon  her  shoul- 
ders, protected  only  by  a  calico  dress.  The  dust  rose  under 
her  feet,  and  as  she  was  wet  wTith  perspiration  it  soiled  her, 
till,  with  a  woman's  instinctive  cleanliness,  she  shuddered. 
Her  head  throbbed  dangerously.  What  matter  to  her  that 
the  kingbird  pitched  jovially  from  the  maples  to  catch  a 
wandering  bluebottle  fly,  that  the  robin  was  feeding  its 
young,  that  the  bobolink  was  singing  ?  All  these  things,  if 
she  saw  them,  only  threw  her  bondage  to  labor  into  greater 
relief. 

Across  the  field,  in  another  patch  of  corn,  she  could  see 
her  father  —  a  big,  gruff- voiced,  wide-bearded  Norwegian 

1  This  is  Part  II  of  the  story.  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Main- 
Traveled  Roads,  by  Hamlin  Garland.  (The  Macmillan  Company.)  Copy- 
right, 1899,  by  Hamlin  Garland. 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  89 

—  at  work  also  with  a  plough.  The  corn  must  be  ploughed, 
and  so  she  toiled  on,  the  tears  dropping  from  the  shadow  of 
the  ugly  sunbonnet  she  wore.  Her  shoes,  coarse  and  square- 
toed,  chafed  her  feet;  her  hands,  large  and  strong,  were 
browned,  or,  more  properly,  burnt,  on  the  backs  by  the  sun. 
The  horse's  harness  "creafc-eracked"  as  he  swung  steadily 
and  patiently  forward,  the  moisture  pouring  from  his 
sides,  his  nostrils  distended. 

The  field  bordered  on  a  road,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road  ran  a  river  —  a  broad,  clear,  shallow  expanse  at  that 
point,  and  the  eyes  of  the  boy  gazed  longingly  at  the  pond 
and  the  cool  shadow  each  time  that  he  turned  at  the  fence. 

"  Say,  Jule,  I'm  goin'  in  !  Come,  can't  I  ?  Come  —  say ! " 
he  pleaded,  as  they  stopped  at  the  fence  to  let  the  horse 
breathe. 

"I've  let  you  go  wade  twice." 

"But  that  don't  do  any  good.  My  legs  is  all  smarty, 
'cause  oP  Jack  sweats  so."  The  boy  turned  around  on  the 
horse's  back  and  slid  back  to  his  rump.  "  I  can't  stand  it ! " 
he  burst  out,  sliding  off  and  darting  under  the  fence. 
"Father  can't  see." 

The  girl  put  her  elbows  on  the  fence  and  watched  her 
little  brother  as  he  sped  away  to  the  pool,  throwing  off  his 
clothes  as  he  ran,  whooping  with  uncontrollable  delight. 
Soon  she  could  hear  him  splashing  about  hi  the  water  a 
short  distance  up  the  stream,  and  caught  glimpses  of  his 
little  shiny  body  and  happy  face.  How  cool  that  water 
looked!  And  the  shadows  there  by  the  big  basswood! 
How  that  water  would  cool  her  blistered  feet.  An  impulse 
seized  her,  and  she  squeezed  between  the  rails  of  the  fence, 
and  stood  in  the  road  looking  up  and  down  to  see  that  the 
way  was  clear.  It  was  not  a  main-traveled  road;  no  one 
was  likely  to  come ;  why  not  ? 

She  hurriedly  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings  —  how 
delicious  the  cool,  soft  velvet  of  the  grass !  —  and  sitting 


90  AMERICAN  TYPES 

down  on  the  bank  under  the  great  basswood,  whose  roots 
formed  an  abrupt  bank,  she  slid  her  poor  blistered,  chafed 
feet  into  the  water,  her  bare  head  leaned  against  the  huge 
tree-trunk. 

And  now,  as  she  rested,  the  beauty  of  the  scene  came  to 
her.  Over  her  the  wind  moved  the  leaves.  A  jay  screamed 
far  off,  as  if  answering  the  cries  of  the  boy.  A  kingfisher 
crossed  and  recrossed  the  stream  with  dipping  sweep  of  his 
wings.  The  river  sang  with  its  lips  to  the  pebbles.  The 
vast  clouds  went  by  majestically,  far  above  the  tree-tops, 
and  the  snap  and  buzzing  and  ringing  whir  of  July  insects 
made  a  ceaseless,  slumberous  undertone  of  song  solvent  of 
all  else.  The  tired  girl  forgot  her  work.  She  began  to  dream. 
This  would  not  last  always.  Some  one  would  come  to 
release  her  from  such  drudgery.  This  was  her  constant, 
tenderest,  and  most  secret  dream.  He  would  be  a  Yankee, 
not  a  Norwegian.  The  Yankees  didn't  ask  their  wives  to 
work  in  the  field.  He  would  have  a  home.  Perhaps  he'd 
live  in  town  —  perhaps  a  merchant !  And  then  she  thought 
of  the  drug  clerk  in  Rock  River  who  had  looked  at  her  — 
A  voice  broke  in  on  her  dream,  a  fresh,  manly  voice. 

"  Well,  by  jinks  !  if  it  ain't  Julia !  Just  the  one  I  wanted 
to  see!" 

The  girl  turned,  saw  a  pleasant-faced  young  fellow  in  a 
derby  hat  and  a  cutaway  suit  of  diagonals. 

"Bob  Rodemaker!  How  come — " 

She  remembered  her  situation  and  flushed,  looked  down 
at  the  water,  and  remained  perfectly  still. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  shake  hands?  Y*  don't  seem  very 
glad  t'  see  me." 

She  began  to  grow  angry.  "If  you  had  any  eyes,  you'd 
see." 

Rob  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  whistled,  turned 
away.  "  Oh,  I  see !  Excuse  me !  Don't  blame  yeh  a  bit, 
though.  Good  weather  f'r  corn,"  he  went  on,  looking  up  at 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  91 

the  trees.  "Corn  seems  to  be  pretty  well  forward,"  he  con- 
tinued, in  a  louder  voice,  as  he  walked  away,  still  gazing 
into  the  air.  "Crops  is  looking  first-class  in  Boomtown. 
Hello!  This  Otto?  H'yare,  y'  little  scamp!  Get  on  to 
that  horse  ag'in.  Quick,  'r  I'll  take  y'r  skin  off  an'  hang  it 
on  the  fence.  What  y'  been  doin'  ?" 

"  Ben  in  swimmin'.  Jimminy,  ain't  it  fun !  When  'd  y' 
get  back?"  said  the  boy,  grinning. 

"Never  you  mind!"  replied  Rob,  leaping  the  fence  by 
laying  his  left  hand  on  the  top  rail.  "  Get  on  to  that  horse." 
He  tossed  the  boy  up  on  the  horse,  and  hung  his  coat  on  the 
fence.  "I  s'pose  the  oP  man  makes  her  plough,  same  as 
usual?" 

"Yup,"  said  Otto. 

"Dod  ding  a  man  that'll  do  that!  I  don't  mind  if  it's 
necessary,  but  it  ain't  necessary  in  his  case."  He  continued 
to  mutter  in  this  way  as  he  went  across  to  the  other  side  of 
the  field.  As  they  turned  to  come  back,  Rob  went  up  and 
looked  at  the  horse's  mouth.  "Gettin'  purty  near  of  age. 
Say,  who's  sparkin'  Julia  now  —  anybody  ?  " 

"Nobody  'cept  some  oP  Norwegians.  She  won't  have 
them.  For  wants  her  to,  but  she  won't." 

"Good  f'r  her.  Nobody  comes  t'  see  her  Sunday  nights, 
eh?" 

"Nope;  only  Tias  Anderson  an'  Ole  Hoover;  but  she 
goes  off  an'  leaves  'em." 

"Chk!"  said  Rob,  starting  old  Jack  across  the  field. 

It  was  almost  noon,  and  Jack  moved  reluctantly.  He 
knew  the  time  of  day  as  well  as  the  boy.  He  made  this 
round  after  distinct  protest. 

In  the  meantime  Julia,  putting  on  her  shoes  and  stock- 
ings, went  to  the  fence  and  watched  the  man's  shining 
white  shirt  as  he  moved  across  the  cornfield.  There  had 
never  been  any  special  tenderness  between  them,  but  she 
had  always  liked  him.  They  had  been  at  school  together. 


92  AMERICAN  TYPES 

She  wondered  why  he  had  come  back  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  and  wondered  how  long  he  would  stay.  How  long 
had  he  stood  looking  at  her?  She  flushed  again  at  the 
thought  of  it.  But  he  was  n't  to  blame ;  it  was  a  public  road. 
She  might  have  known  better. 

She  stood  under  a  little  popple-tree,  whose  leaves  shook 
musically  at  every  zephyr,  and  her  eyes,  through  half -shut 
lids,  roved  over  the  sea  of  deep-green,  glossy  leaves,  dappled 
here  and  there  by  cloud  shadows,  stirred  here  and  there 
like  water  by  the  wind ;  and  out  of  it  all  a  longing  to  be  free 
from  such  toil  rose  like  a  breath,  filling  her  throat  and 
quickening  the  motion  of  her  heart.  Must  this  go  on  for- 
ever, this  life  of  heat  and  dust  and  labor  ?  What  did  it  all 
mean? 

The  girl  laid  her  chin  on  her  strong  red  wrists,  and  looked 
up  into  the  blue  spaces  between  the  vast  clouds  —  aerial 
mountains  dissolving  in  a  shoreless  azure  sea.  How  cool 
and  sweet  and  restful  they  looked !  If  she  might  only  lie 
out  on  the  billowy,  snow-white,  sunlit  edge !  The  voices  of 
the  driver  and  the  ploughman  recalled  her,  and  she  fixed 
her  eyes  again  upon  the  slowly  nodding  head  of  the  patient 
horse,  on  the  boy  turned  half  about  on  his  saddle,  talking 
to  the  white-sleeved  man,  whose  derby  hat  bobbed  up  and 
down  quite  curiously,  like  the  horse's  head.  Would  she  ask 
him  to  dinner  ?  What  would  her  people  say  ? 

"Phew!  it's  hot!"  was  the  greeting  the  young  fellow 
gave  as  he  came  up.  He  smiled  in  a  frank,  boyish  way,  as 
he  hung  his  hat  on  the  top  of  a  stake  and  looked  up  at  her. 
"D'y*  know,  I  kind  o'  enjoy  gettin'  at  it  again?  Fact.  It 
ain't  no  work  for  a  girl,  though,"  he  added. 

"When  'd  you  get  back?"  she  asked,  the  flush  not  yet 
out  of  her  face. 

Rob  was  looking  at  her  thick,  fine  hair  and  full  Scandi- 
navian face,  rich  as  a  rose  in  color,  and  did  not  reply  for  a 
few  seconds.  She  stood  with  her  hideous  sunbonnet  pushed 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  93 

back  on  her  shoulders.  A  kingbird  was  chattering  over- 
head. 

"Oh,  a  few  days  ago." 

"How  long  y'  goin'  t'  stay?" 

"Oh,  I  d'  know.  A  week,  mebbe." 

A  far-off  halloo  came  pulsing  across  the  shimmering  air. 
The  boy  screamed  "Dinner !"  and  waved  his  hat  with  an 
answering  whoop,  then  flopped  off  the  horse  like  a  turtle 
off  a  stone  into  water.  He  had  the  horse  unhooked  in  an 
instant,  and  had  flung  his  toes  up  over  the  horse's  back,  in 
act  to  climb  on,  when  Rob  said : 

"H'yare,  young  feller!  Wait  a  minute.  Tired?"  he 
asked  the  girl,  with  a  tone  that  was  more  than  kindly.  It 
was  almost  tender. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  voice.  "My  shoes  hurt  me." 

"Well,  here  y'  go,"  he  replied,  taking  his  stand  by  the 
horse,  and  holding  out  his  hand  like  a  step.  She  colored  and 
smiled  a  little  as  she  lifted  her  foot  into  his  huge,  hard,  sun- 
burned hand. 

"Oop-a-daisy !"  he  called.  She  gave  a  spring,  and  sat  on 
the  horse  like  one  at  home  there. 

Rob  had  a  deliciously  unconscious,  abstracted,  business- 
like air.  He  really  left  her  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  his 
company,  while  he  went  ahead  and  did  precisely  as  he 
pleased. 

"  We  don't  raise  much  corn  out  there,  an*  so  I  kind  o'  like 
to  see  it  once  more." 

"I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  see  another  hill  of  corn  as  long 
as  I  live  !"  replied  the  girl,  bitterly. 

"  Don't  know  as  I  blame  yeh  a  bit.  But,  all  the  same,  I'm 
glad  you  was  working  in  it  to-day,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
as  he  walked  beside  her  horse  toward  the  house. 

"Will  you  stop  to  dinner?"  she  inquired  bluntly,  almost 
surlily.  It  was  evident  there  were  reasons  why  she  did  n't 
mean  to  press  him  to  do  so. 


94,  AMERICAN  TYPES 

"You  bet  I  will,"  he  replied;  "that  is,  if  you  want  I 
should." 

"  You  know  how  we  live,"  she  replied  evasively.  "  If  you 
can  stand  it,  why — "  She  broke  off  abruptly. 

Yes,  he  remembered  how  they  lived  in  that  big,  square, 
dirty,  white  frame  house.  It  had  been  three  or  four  years 
since  he  had  been  in  it,  but  the  smell  of  the  cabbage  and 
onions,  the  penetrating,  peculiar  mixture  of  odors,  assailed 
his  memory  as  something  unforgettable. 

"I  guess  I'll  stop,"  he  said,  as  she  hesitated. 

She  said  no  more,  but  tried  to  act  as  if  she  were  not  in  any 
way  responsible  for  what  came  afterward. 

"  I  guess  I  c'n  stand  f  'r  one  meal  what  you  stand  all  thc> 
while,"  he  added. 

As  she  left  them  at  the  well  and  went  to  the  house,  ha 
saw  her  limp  painfully,  and  the  memory  of  her  face  so  close 
to  his  lips  as  he  helped  her  down  from  the  horse  gave  him 
pleasure  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  touched  by  its  tired 
and  gloomy  look.  Mrs.  Peterson  came  to  the  door  of  the 
kitchen,  looking  just  the  same  as  ever.  Broad-faced,  un- 
wieldy, flabby,  apparently  wearing  the  same  dress  he  re- 
membered to  have  seen  her  in  years  before, —  a  dirty,  drab- 
colored  thing, —  she  looked  as  shapeless  as  a  sack  of  wool. 
Her  English  was  limited  to,  "How  de  do,  Rob  ?" 

He  washed  at  the  pump,  while  the  girl,  in  the  attempt  to 
be  hospitable,  held  the  clean  towel  for  him. 

"You  're  purty  well  used  up,  eh  ? "  he  said  to  her. 

"Yes;  it's  awful  hot  out  there." 

"Can't  you  lay  off  this  afternoon ?  It  ain't  right/' 

"No.  He  won't  listen  to  that." 

"Well,  let  me  take  your  place/' 

"No;  there  ain't  any  use  o'  that." 

Peterson,  a  brawny,  wide-bearded  Norwegian,  came  up 
at  this  moment,  and  spoke  to  Rob  in  a  sullen,  gruff  way. 

"Hallo,  whan  yo'  gaet  back?" 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  95 

"To-day.  He  ain't  very  glad  to  see  me,"  said  Rob, 
winking  at  Julia.  "He  ain't  b'ilin*  over  with  enthusi- 
asm ;  but  I  c'n  stand  it,  for  your  sake,"  he  added,  with 
amazing  assurance ;  but  the  girl  had  turned  away,  and  it 
was  wasted. 

At  the  table  he  ate  heartily  of  the  "bean  swaagen," 
which  filled  a  large  wooden  bowl  in  the  center  of  the  table, 
and  which  was  ladled  into  smaller  wooden  bowls  at  each 
plate.  Julia  had  tried  hard  to  convert  her  mother  to 
Yankee  ways,  and  had  at  last  given  it  up  in  despair.  Rob 
kept  on  safe  subjects,  mainly  asking  questions  about  the 
crops  of  Peterson,  and  when  addressing  the  girl,  inquired  of 
the  schoolmates.  By  skillful  questioning,  he  kept  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage  uppermost,  and  seemingly  was  getting  an 
inventory  of  the  girls  not  yet  married  or  engaged. 

It  was  embarrassing  for  the  girl.  She  was  all  too  well 
aware  of  the  difference  between  her  home  and  the  home  of 
her  schoolmates  and  friends.  She  knew  that  it  was  not 
pleasant  for  her  "Yankee"  friends  to  come  to  visit  her 
when  they  could  not  feel  sure  of  a  welcome  from  the  tire- 
less, silent,  and  grim-visaged  old  Norse,  if,  indeed,  they 
could  escape  insult.  Julia  ate  her  food  mechanically,  and 
it  could  hardly  be  said  that  she  enjoyed  the  brisk  talk  of 
the  young  man,  his  eyes  were  upon  her  so  constantly  and 
his  smile  so  obviously  addressed  to  her.  She  rose  as  soon  as 
possible  and,  going  outside,  took  a  seat  on  a  chair  under  the 
trees  in  the  yard.  She  was  not  a  coarse  or  dull  girl.  In  fact, 
she  had  developed  so  rapidly  by  contact  with  the  young 
people  of  the  neighborhood  that  she  no  longer  found  pleas- 
ure in  her  own  home.  She  didn't  believe  in  keeping  up  the 
old-fashioned  Norwegian  customs,  and  her  life  with  her 
mother  was  not  one  to  breed  love  or  confidence.  She  was 
more  like  a  hired  hand.  The  love  of  the  mother  for  her 
"Yulyie"  was  sincere,  though  rough  and  inarticulate,  and 
it  was  her  jealousy  of  the  young  "Yankees"  that  widened 


96  AMERICAN  TYPES 

the  chasm  between  the  girl  and  herself  —  an  inevitable 
result. 

Rob  followed  the  girl  out  into  the  yard,  and  threw  him- 
self on  the  grass  at  her  feet,  perfectly  unconscious  of  the 
fact  that  this  attitude  was  exceedingly  graceful  and  becom- 
ing to  them  both.  He  did  it  because  he  wanted  to  talk  to 
her,  and  the  grass  was  cool  and  easy ;  there  was  n't  any 
other  chair,  anyway. 

"Do  they  keep  up  the  ly-ceum  and  the  sociables  same  as 
ever?" 

"Yes.  The  others  go  a  good  'eal,  but  I  don't.  We're 
gettin*  such  a  stock  round  us,  and  father  thinks  he  needs 
me  s'  much,  I  don't  get  out  often.  I'm  gettin'  sick  of  it." 

"I  sh'd  think  y*  would,"  he  replied,  his  eyes  on  her 
face. 

"I  c'd  stand  the  churnin'  and  housework,  but  when  it 
comes  t'  workin'  outdoors  in  the  dirt  an'  hot  sun,  gettin' 
all  sunburned  and  chapped  up,  it's  another  thing.  An'  then 
it  seems  as  if  he  gets  stingier  'n'  stingier  every  year.  I 
ain't  had  a  new  dress  in  —  I  d'-know-how-long.  He  says 
it's  all  nonsense,  an'  mother's  just  about  as  bad.  She  don't 
want  a  new  dress,  an'  so  she  thinks  I  don't."  The  girl  was 
feeling  the  influence  of  a  sympathetic  listener  and  was 
making  up  for  the  long  silence.  "I've  tried  t'  go  out  t' 
work,  but  they  won't  let  me.  They'd  have  t'  pay  a  hand 
twenty  dollars  a  month  f'r  the  work  I  do,  an'  they  like 
cheap  help ;  but  I'm  not  goin'  t'  stand  it  much  longer,  I  can 
tell  you  that." 

Rob  thought  she  was  very  handsome  as  she  sat  there 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon,  while  these  rebellious 
thoughts  found  utterance  in  her  quivering,  passionate 
voice. 

"Yulie  !  Kom  haar !"  roared  the  old  man  from  the  well. 

A  frown  of  anger  and  pain  came  into  her  face.  She 
looked  at  Rob.  "That  means  more  work." 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  97 

"Say !  let  me  go  out  in  your  place.  Come,  now;  what's 
the  use  — " 

"No;  it  wouldn't  do  no  good.  It  ain't  t'-day  s*  much; 
it's  every  day,  and  — " 

"Yulie!"  called  Peterson  again,  with  a  string  of  impa- 
tient Norwegian.  "Batter  yo'  kom  pooty  hal  quick." 

"Well,  all  right,  only  I'd  like  to  — "  Rob  submitted. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  she  said,  with  a  little  touch  of  feeling. 
"When  d'ye  go  back?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'll  see  y*  again  before  I  go.  Good-bye." 

He  stood  watching  her  slow,  painful  pace  till  she  reached 
the  well,  where  Otto  was  standing  with  the  horse.  He  stood 
watching  them  as  they  moved  out  into  the  road  and  turned 
down  toward  the  field.  He  felt  that  she  had  sent  him  away ; 
but  still  there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  was  not  alto- 
gether — 

He  gave  it  up  in  despair  at  last.  He  was  not  good  at 
analyses  of  this  nature ;  he  was  used  to  plain,  blunt  expres- 
sions. There  was  a  woman's  subtlety  here  quite  beyond  his 
reach. 

He  sauntered  slowly  off  up  the  road  after  his  talk  with 
Julia.  His  head  was  low  on  his  breast ;  he  was  thinking  as 
one  who  is  about  to  take  a  decided  and  important  step. 

He  stopped  at  length,  and,  turning,  watched  the  girl 
moving  along  in  the  deeps  of  the  corn.  Hardly  a  leaf  was 
stirring;  the  untempered  sunlight  fell  in  a  burning  flood 
upon  the  field;  the  grasshoppers  rose,  snapped,  buzzed, 
and  fell ;  the  locust  uttered  its  dry,  heat-intensifying  cry. 
The  man  lifted  his  head. 

"It's  a  d n  shame!"  he  said,  beginning  rapidly  to 

retrace  his  steps.  He  stood  leaning  on  the  fence,  awaiting 
the  girl's  coming  very  much  as  she  had  waited  his  on  the 
round  he  had  made  before  dinner.  He  grew  impatient  at 
the  slow  gait  of  the  horse,  and  drummed  on  the  rail  while 
he  whistled.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat  and  dusted  it  ner- 


08  AMERICAN  TYPES 

vously.  As  the  horse  got  a  little  nearer  he  wiped  his  face 
carefully,  pushed  his  hat  back  on  his  head,  and  climbed 
over  the  fence,  where  he  stood  with  elbows  on  the  middle 
rail  as  the  girl  and  boy  and  horse  came  to  the  end  of  the 
furrow. 

"Hot,  ain't  it?"  he  said,  as  she  looked  up. 

"  Jimminy  Peters,  it's  awful !"  puffed  the  boy. 

The  girl  did  not  reply  till  she  swung  the  plough  about 
after  the  horse,  and  set  it  upright  into  the  next  row.  Her 
powerful  body  had  a  superb  swaying  motion  at  the  waist 
as  she  did  this  —  a  motion  which  affected  Rob  vaguely 
but  massively. 

"I  thought  you'd  gone,"  she  said  gravely,  pushing  back 
her  bonnet  till  he  could  see  her  face  dewed  with  sweat,  and 
pink  as  a  rose.  She  had  the  high  cheek-bones  of  her  race, 
but  she  had  also  their  exquisite  fairness  of  color. 

"Say,  Otto,"  asked  Rob,  alluringly,  "wan'  to  go  swim- 
min'?" 

"You  bet,"  replied  Otto. 

"Well,  I'll  go  a  round  if  — " 

The  boy  dropped  off  the  horse,  not  waiting  to  hear  any 
more.  Rob  grinned,  but  the  girl  dropped  her  eye^,  then 
looked  away. 

"Got  rid  o'  him  mighty  quick.  Say,  Julyie,  I  hate  like 
thunder  t'  see  you  out  here ;  it  ain't  right.  I  wish  you'd  — 
I  wish—" 

She  could  not  look  at  him  now,  and  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  with  a  motion  that  was  not  due  to  fatigue.  Her 
moist  hair  matted  around  her  forehead  gave  her  a  boyish 
look. 

Rob  nervously  tried  again,  tearing  splinters  from  the 
fence.  "  Say,  now,  I'll  tell  yeh  what  I  came  back  here  for  — 
t'  git  married;  and  if  you're  willin',  I'll  do  it  to-night. 
Come,  now,  whaddy  y'  say  ?  " 

"What  've  I  got  t'  do  'bout  it?"  she  finally  asked,  the 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  99 

color  flooding  her  face,  and  a  faint  smile  coming  to  her  lips. 
"Go  ahead.  I  ain't  got  anything — " 

Rob  put  a  splinter  in  his  mouth  and  faced  her.  "Oh, 
looky  here,  now,  Julyie !  You  know  what  I  mean !  I've 
got  a  good  claim  out  near  Boomtown  —  a  rattlin'  good 
claim ;  a  shanty  on  it  fourteen  by  sixteen  —  no  tarred  paper 
about  it,  and  a  suller  to  keep  butter  in,  and  a  hundred  acres 
o'  wheat  just  about  ready  to  turn  now.  I  need  a  wife." 

Here  he  straightened  up,  threw  away  the  splinter,  and 
took  off  his  hat.  He  was  a  very  pleasant  figure  as  the  girl 
stole  a  look  at  him.  His  black  laughing  eyes  were  espe- 
cially earnest  just  now.  His  voice  had  a  touch  of  pleading. 
The  popple-tree  over  their  heads  murmured  applause  at 
his  eloquence,  then  hushed  to  listen.  A  cloud  dropped  a 
silent  shadow  down  upon  them,  and  it  sent  a  little  thrill  of 
fear  through  Rob,  as  if  it  were  an  omen  of  failure.  As  the 
girl  remained  silent,  looking  away,  he  began,  man-fashion, 
to  desire  her  more  and  more,  as  he  feared  to  lose  her.  He 
put  his  hat  on  the  post  again  and  took  out  his  jack-knife. 
Her  calico  dress  draped  her  supple  and  powerful  figure 
simply  but  naturally.  The  stoop  in  her  shoulders,  given  by 
labor,  disappeared  as  she  partly  leaned  upon  the  fence. 
The  curves  of  her  muscular  arms  showed  through  her 
sleeve. 

"It's  all-fired  lonesome  f'r  me  out  there  on  that  claim, 
and  it  ain't  no  picnic  f 'r  you  here.  Now,  if  you'll  come  out 
there  with  me,  you  needn't  do  anything  but  cook  fr  me, 
and  after  harvest  we  can  git  a  good  layout  o'  furniture,  an' 
I'll  lath  and  plaster  the  house  and  put  a  little  hell  [ell]  in 
the  rear."  He  smiled,  and  so  did  she.  He  felt  encouraged  to 
say :  "An*  there  we  be,  as  snug  as  y'  please.  We're  close  t* 
Boomtown,  an'  we  can  go  down  there  to  church  sociables 
an'  things,  and  they're  a  jolly  lot  there." 

The  girl  was  still  silent,  but  the  man's  simple  enthusiasm 
came  to  her  charged  with  passion  and  a  sort  of  romance 


100  AMERICAN  TYPES 

such  as  her  hard  life  had  known  little  of.  There  was  some- 
thing enticing  about  this  trip  to  the  West. 

"  What'll  my  folks  say  ?"  she  said  at  last. 

A  virtual  surrender,  but  Rob  was  not  acute  enough  to 
see  it.  He  pressed  on  eagerly : 

"  I  don't  care.  Do  you  ?  They'll  jest  keep  y*  ploughin' 
corn  and  milkin*  cows  till  the  day  of  judgment.  Come, 
Julyie,  I  ain't  got  no  time  to  fool  away.  I've  got  t'  get  back 
t'  that  grain.  It's  a  whoopin'  old  crop,  sure's  y'r  born,  an* 
that  means  sompin'  purty  scrumptious  in  furniture  this 
fall.  Come,  now."  He  approached  her  and  laid  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder  very  much  as  he  would  have  touched  Albert 
Seagraves  or  any  other  comrade.  "  Whaddy  y '  say  ?  " 

She  neither  started  nor  shrunk  nor  looked  at  him.  She 
simply  moved  a  step  away.  "They'd  never  let  me  go,"  she 
replied  bitterly.  "I'm  too  cheap  a  hand.  I  do  a  man's 
work  an'  get  no  pay  at  all." 

"  You'll  have  half  o'  all  I  c'n  make,"  he  put  in. 

"How  long  c'n  you  wait?"  she  asked,  looking  down  at 
her  dress. 

"Just  two  minutes,"  he  said,  pulling  out  his  watch.  "It 
ain't  no  use  t'  wait.  The  old  man'll  be  jest  as  mad  a  week 
from  now  as  he  is  to-day.  Why  not  go  now  ?" 

"I'm  of  age  in  a  few  days,"  she  mused,  wavering,  calcu- 
lating. 

"You  c'n  be  of  age  to-night  if  you'll  jeskcall  on  old  Squire 
Hatfield  with  me." 

"All  right,  Rob,"  the  girl  said,  turning  and  holding  out 
her  hand. 

"That's  the  talk ! "  he  exclaimed,  seizing  it.  "And  now  a 
kiss,  to  bind  the  bargain,  as  the  fellah  says." 

"  I  guess  we  c'n  get  along  without  that." 

"No,  we  can't.  It  won't  seem  like  an  engagement  with- 
out it." 

"It  ain't  goin'  to  seem  much  like  one,  anyway,"  she 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  Ifll 

answered,  with  a  sudden  realization  of  how  far  from  her 
dreams  of  courtship  this  reality  was. 

"Say,  now,  Julyie,  that  ain't  fair;  it  ain't  treatin*  me 
right.  You  don't  seem  to  understand  that  I  like  you,  but 
I  do." 

Rob  was  carried  quite  out  of  himself  by  the  time,  the 
place,  and  the  girl.  He  had  said  a  very  moving  thing. 

The  tears  sprang  involuntarily  to  the  girl's  eyes.  "Do 
you  mean  it  ?  If  y'  do,  you  may." 

She  was  trembling  with  emotion  for  the  first  time.  The 
sincerity  of  the  man's  voice  had  gone  deep. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  almost  timidly,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek,  a  great  love  for  her  springing  up  in  his 
heart.  "That  settles  it,"  he  said.  "Don't  cry,  Julyie. 
You'll  never  be  sorry  for  it.  Don't  cry.  It  kind  o'  hurts  me 
to  see  it." 

He  hardly  understood  her  feelings.  He  was  only  aware 
that  she  was  crying,  and  tried  in  a  bungling  way  to  soothe 
her.  But  now  that  she  had  given  way,  she  sat  down  in  the 
grass  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  Yulyie!"  yelled  the  vigilant  old  Norwegian,  like  a  dis- 
tant foghorn. 

The  girl  sprang  up ;  the  habit  of  obedience  was  strong. 

"  No ;  you  set  right  there,  and  I'll  go  round,"  he  said. 
"Otto!" 

The  boy  came  scrambling  out  of  the  wood,  half  dressed. 
Rob  tossed  him  up  on  the  horse,  snatched  Julia's  sun- 
bonnet,  put  his  own  hat  on  her  head,  and  moved  off  down 
the  corn-rows,  leaving  the  girl  smiling  through  her  tears 
as  he  whistled  and  chirped  to  the  horse.  Farmer  Peterson, 
seeing  the  familiar  sunbonnet  above  the  corn-rows,  went 
back  to  his  work,  with  a  sentence  of  Norwegian  trailing 
after  him  like  the  tail  of  a  kite  —  something  about  lazy 
girls  who  didn't  earn  the  crust  of  their  bread,  etc. 

Rob  was  wild  with  delight.     "Git  up  there,  Jack!  Hay, 


.tO*  :  AMERICAN  TYPES 

you  old  corncrib!  Say,  Otto,  can  you  keep  your  mouth 
shet  if  it  puts  money  in  your  pocket?  " 

"Jest  try  me  V  see,"  said  the  keen-eyed  little  scamp. 

"Well,  you  keep  quiet  about  my  bein'  here  this  after- 
noon, and  I'll  put  a  dollar  on  y'r  tongue  —  hay?  —  what? 
—  understand?" 

"Show  me  y'r  dollar,"  said  the  boy,  turning  about  and 
showing  his  tongue. 

"All  right.  Begin  to  practise  now  by  not  talkin'  to  me." 

Rob  went  over  the  whole  situation  on  his  way  back,  and 
when  he  got  in  sight  of  the  girl  his  plan  was  made.  She 
stood  waiting  for  him  with  a  new  look  on  her  face.  Her 
sullenness  had  given  way  to  a  peculiar  eagerness  and 
anxiety  to  believe  in  him.  She  was  already  living  that  free 
life  in  a  far-off,  wonderful  country.  No  more  would  her 
stern  father  and  sullen  mother  force  her  to  tasks  which  she 
hated.  She'd  be  a  member  of  a  new  firm.  She'd  work,  of 
course,  but  it  would  be  because  she  wanted  to,  and  not  be- 
cause she  was  forced  to.  The  independence  and  the  love 
promised  grew  more  and  more  attractive.  She  laughed 
back  with  a  softer  light  in  her  eyes,  when  she  saw  the  smil- 
ing face  of  Rob  looking  at  her  from  her  sunbonnet. 

"Now  you  mustn't  do  any  more  o'  this,"  he  said.  "You 
go  back  to  the  house  an'  tell  y'r  mother  you're  too  lame  to 
plough  any  more  to-day,  and  it's  gettin'  late,  anyhow.  To- 
night!" he  whispered  quickly.  "Eleven!  Here!" 

The  girl's  heart  leaped  with  fear.  "I'm  afraid." 

"Not  of  me,  areyeh?" 

"No,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  Rob." 

"  I'm  glad  o'  that.  I  —  I  want  you  —  to  like  me,  Julyie ; 
won't  you?" 

"I'll  try,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 

"To-night,  then,"  he  said,  as  she  moved  away. 

"To-night.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 


AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS  103 

He  stood  and  watched  her  till  her  tall  figure  was  lost 
among  the  drooping  corn-leaves.  There  was  a  singular 
choking  feeling  in  his  throat.  The  girl's  voice  and  face  had 
brought  up  so  many  memories  of  parties  and  picnics  and 
excursions  on  far-off  holidays,  and  at  the  same  time  held 
suggestions  of  the  future.  He  already  felt  that  it  was  going 
to  be  an  unconscionably  long  time  before  eleven  o'clock. 

He  saw  her  go  to  the  house,  and  then  he  turned  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  dusty  road.  Out  of  the  May-weed 
the  grasshoppers  sprang,  buzzing  and  snapping  their  dull 
red  wings.  Butterflies,  yellow  and  white,  fluttered  around 
moist  places  in  the  ditch,  and  slender,  striped  water-snakes 
glided  across  the  stagnant  pools  at  sound  of  footsteps. 

But  the  mind  of  the  man  was  far  away  on  his  claim, 
building  a  new  house,  with  a  woman's  advice  and  presence. 

It  was  a  windless  night.  The  katydids  and  an  occasional 
cricket  were  the  only  sounds  Rob  could  hear  as  he  stood 
beside  his  team  and  strained  his  ear  to  listen.  At  long  inter- 
vals a  little  breeze  ran  through  the  corn  like  a  swift  serpent, 
bringing  to  his  nostrils  the  sappy  smell  of  the  growing 
corn.  The  horses  stamped  uneasily  as  the  mosquitoes 
settled  on  their  shining  limbs.  The  sky  was  full  of  stars, 
but  there  was  no  moon. 

"  What  if  she  don't  come  ?  "  he  thought.  "  Or  can't  come  ? 
I  can't  stand  that.  I'll  go  to  the  old  man  an'  say,  'Looky 
here— 'Sh!" 

He  listened  again.  There  was  a  rustling  in  the  corn.  It 
was  not  like  the  fitful  movement  of  the  wind ;  it  was  steady, 
slower,  and  approaching.  It  ceased.  He  whistled  the  wail- 
ing sweet  cry  of  the  prairie-chicken.  Then  a  figure  came 
out  into  the  road  —  a  woman  —  Julia ! 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  as  she  came  panting  up  to  him. 

"Rob!" 

"Julyie!" 


104  AMERICAN  TYPES 

A  few  words,  the  dull  tread  of  swift  horses,  the  rising  of  a 
silent  train  of  dust,  and  then  —  the  wind  wandered  in  the 
growing  corn,  the  dust  fell,  a  dog  barked  down  the  road, 
and  the  katydids  sang  to  the  liquid  contralto  of  the  river 
in  its  shallows. 


ELLIE'S  FURNISHING1 
BY  MRS.  HELEN  R.  MARTIN 

THE  school-teacher,  Eli  Darmstetter,  had  "composed"  the 
form  of  invitation  to  be  sent  to  those  friends  and  relatives 
who  lived  too  far  away  to  be  invited  by  word  of  mouth. 

CANAAN,  LANCASTER  Co.,  PA. 

May  10, 1895 
DEAR  FRIEND  : 

Inclosed  please  find  an  Invitation  to  our  Daughter  Ellie 
Furnishing  Party,  it  was  to  take  place  on  May  5,  1895.  But 
oweing  to  Some  of  her  Prominent  Friends  being  away  and  Some 
had  former  engagements,  We  Concluded  to  postpone  the  affair 
until  the  10th  inst.  So  I  hope  it  will  be  Convenient  for  you  and 
your  Esteemable  Wife  to  confer  us  a  favor  and  pleasure  by  being 
present  at  that  Evening. 

With  Regards  and  Respects 
I  Remain 

Truly  yours 

DANIEL  SEEDENSTICKER 

Mr.  Seidensticker  had  this  form,  with  some  variations  to 
suit  individual  cases,  copied  and  sent  far  and  wide  to  all  his 
friends,  acquaintance,  kith  and  kin ;  and  the  replies  that 
they  brought  during  the  several  weeks  following  afforded 
high  entertainment,  not  to  say  mad  dissipation,  to  the 
Seidenstickers.  Indeed,  so  broken  up  was  the  dull  mono- 
tony of  their  lives  by  the  unaccustomed  daily  arrival  of 
mail,  and  by  preparations  for  the  Furnishing  Party  and 
expeditions  to  town  to  buy  the  furniture  for  Ellie's  parlor, 
that  the  nerve  and  brain  of  the  family  were  strained  to  a 
severe  tension  in  sustaining  all  this  unwonted  mental  and 
physical  activity. 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Betrothal  of  Elypholaie,  by  Mrs. 
Helen  R.  Martin.  Copyright,  1907,  by  the  Century  Company. 


106  AMERICAN  TYPES 

"This  here'n  is  from  Bucks  County,"  Mrs.  Seidensticker 
one  evening  announced  to  her  assembled  family  as  she 
opened  a  letter  which  Jakey,  her  nine-year-old  son,  had 
just  brought  from  the  post-office  at  Canaan.  It  was  a  mild 
evening  in  early  May,  and  they  were  all  gathered  on  the 
kitchen  porch  to  enjoy  the  budget  of  mail  which,  since  the 
sending  forth  of  the  invitations,  had  come  to  be  the  most 
important  feature  of  their  day ;  Ellie,  the  grown-up  daugh- 
ter ;  Silas,  her  elder  brother,  who  shared  his  father's  labors 
on  then*  large  farm ;  Jakey,  the  little  brother ;  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Seidensticker. 

Mrs.  Seidensticker,  a  large,  stout  woman  a  little  past 
middle  age,  wore  the  New  Mennonite  plain  dress  and  white 
cap,  but  her  fat,  dull  countenance  did  not  bear  that  stamp 
of  other-worldliness  so  characteristic  of  many  New  Men- 
nonites.  Her  pretty,  dainty  daughter  Ellie,  who  was 
dressed  "fashionable,"  had  —  much  more  than  her  mother 
—  the  pensive,  nun-like  face  so  often  seen  behind  the  black 
sunbonnets  of  the  wives  of  Lancaster  County  farmers. 

Mr.  Seidensticker,  a  hard-working  Pennsylvania  Dutch 
farmer,  did  not  wear  the  Mennonite  garb.  He  had  never 
"turned  plain"  and  "given  himself  up,"  and  he  still  "re- 
mained in  the  world." 

"It's  from  Cousin  Elipholat,"  Mrs.  Seidensticker  con- 
tinued. "Ellie,  you  read  it  oncet,"  she  added,  leaning 
forward  in  her  chair  and  passing  the  letter  to  her  daughter, 
who  sat  near  her  on  the  porch.  "  You're  handier  at  readin* 
writin'  than  what  I  am  still." 

"Leave  Si  read  it,"  Ellie  indifferently  returned. 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  "What's  the 
matter  of  you,  Ellie  ?  Ain't  you  mebbe  feelin'  just  so  good 
or  what?" 

"Oh,  I'm  feelin'  just  so  middlin';  I  don't  want  for  to 
read.  Leave  Si." 

Mrs.  Seidensticker  had  been  vaguely  conscious,  in  the 


ELITE'S  FUKNISHING  107 

past  few  days,  of  the  fact  that  something  was  troubling 
Ellie.  The  girl  was  not  like  herself ;  ever  since  she  and  Sam 
Shunk,  her  "gentleman  friend,"  had  gone  to  town  to- 
gether to  buy  the  furniture  for  the  parlor  in  which  Ellie 
was  to  "set  up  Sa'urdays  and  keep  company"  with  him, 
she  had  been  pale  and  listless,  and  at  times  she  wore  a  look 
of  suffering  that  troubled  the  mother  deeply.  Could  some- 
thing have  gone  wrong  between  Ellie  and  Sam?  Mrs. 
Seidensticker's  questionings  had  brought  no  confidences 
from  Ellie.  What  a  mortification  it  would  be  if,  when  all 
the  preparations  were  made  for  the  "Furnishing"  party,  at 
which  the  engagement  of  Ellie  and  Sam  was  to  be  "put 
out,"  it  should  transpire  that  "one  of  'em  wasn't  satisfied 
with  the  other"! 

Mrs.  Seidensticker  was  greatly  troubled. 

"Then,  Si,  you  read  it,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  giving  the 
letter  to  her  grown  son,  who  sat  on  the  porch-step  at  her 
feet. 

Silas,  bending  to  the  task  allotted  to  him,  strenuously 
grasped  the  sheet  with  both  his  hands. 

Dear  cousins  my  Pop  he  can't  come,  Because  he  ain't  no  more 
alive.  He  died.  He  was  layin'  for  22  weeks.  It's  five  years  back 
already  that  he  died  for  me  I'm  sorry  he  can't  come.  But  he's 
dead.  I  would  come  but  I'm  turned  plain  and  wear  the  garb  now 
and  so  parties  and  such  things  like  them  don't  do  me  no  good,  and 
I'd  best  not  addict  to  them  things.  Pop  he  would  of  like  to  come. 
But  he  is  dead  this  five  years  now. 

Your  Well  Wisher 

EUPHOLAT  HlNNERSHIZ 

"Now,  think !"  said  Mrs.  Seidensticker  with  a  long  sigh. 
"I  didn't  never  hear  that  Cousin  Jake  passed  away.  He 
was  a  good  man,"  she  said  mournfully.  "  If  yous  could  see 
him  right  now  here  on  this  porch,  you'd  know  he  was  one  of 
the  finest  men  settin' !  He  was  just  comin'  forty  years  old 
when  I  seen  him  last ;  that  was  mebbe  fifteen  years  back 


108  AMERICAN  TYPES 

already.  I  ain't  sure  it  was  just  to  say  fifteen  —  but  we 
won't  stop  at  fifteen,  but  we'll  give  it  that  anyhow.  Do 
you  mind  of  him,  Pop  ?"  she  asked  her  husband. 

;Mr.  Seidensticker  drew  his  long,  thin  length  up  from  the 
pump-bed  and  leaned  against  a  pillar  of  the  porch. 

"  Ach,  yes,  I  mind  of  him.  He  had  sich  a  long  beard  that 
way.  He  was  very  proud  of  hisseff  with  his  beard,  Mom." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  thoughtfully  reminiscent;  "he  was  the 
high-feelingest  man!  You  see,"  she  explained  to  her 
children,  "he  married  sich  a  tony  wife  !  She  was  wonderful 
tony.  Her  pop  was  a  head-waiter  in  a  hotel,  and  she  was, 
oh,  a  way-up  woman.  If  she  got  mad,  I  want  you  to  notice 
of  the  sparks  didn't  fly !" 

"And  do  you  mind,  Mom,"  said  Ellie's  soft  voice,  "how 
oncet  when  you  took  me  to  Bucks  County  to  see  her  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  she  used  to  use  napkins  on  the  table  for 
every  day  still?" 

"Yes,"  nodded  her  mother.  "She  sayed  she  was  raised 
that  way.  But  people's  ways  is  different  in  Bucks  County 
to  what  they  are  here.  I've  took  notice  of  that  whenever  I 
traveled  to  Bucks  County.  Yes,  the  world  changes  a  heap 
in  thirty  or  forty  miles  already.  She  was  so  much  for 
makin'  the  windows  open  in  summer-time.  I  ain't.  We 
ain't  raised  to  that  in  Lancaster  County.  It  draws  flies. 
And  she  didn't  raise  her  babies  like  what  I  did.  She  sayed 
I  was  too  much  for  keepin*  'em  covered  up  and  hot.  She 
wasn't  in  for  that.  She  did,  now,  have  queer  ways  to  her- 
self. She  didn't  have  no  children  but  only  Elipholat  and 
another  one  that  was  born  dead.  She  didn't  want  no  more, 
she  sayed,  still ;  she  wasn't  no  friend  to  children.  But  I  tole 
her  when  you're  married,  you  ain't  ast  do  you  favor 
children  or  no.  And  she  sayed  the  Lord  didn't  give  but  the 
two  children ;  and  she  must  say  she  didn't  never  disagree 
with  the  Lord  that  He  did  not  treat  her  like  them  Stuffen- 
kind  fambly  that  had  nineteen,  so  they  never  could  stay  in 


ELLIE'S  FURNISHING  109 

the  house  all  together  mit,  but  two  had  to  take  turn  stay- 
ing outside.  Yes,  that's  the  way  she'd  talk  still ;  like  they 
all  in  Bucks  County,  makin'  joke  of  what  they  hadn't 
should." 

"Who's  the  other  letter  from,  Mom  ? "  asked  Jakey  from 
his  perch  on  the  porch  railing.  "  I  brung  two  and  a  postal 
card.  When  John  Doen  give  me  our  mail,  he  sayed  he 
couldn't  make  out  the  writin'  on  that  there  postal  card, 
only  he  could  see  it  was  from  Ebenezer  Duttonhoffer." 

"Oh,  him,"  nodded  Mrs.  Seidensticker.  "Here,  Si,  read 
it  oncet." 

The  early  shades  of  the  May  evening  were  gathering  and 
Silas  was  obliged  to  hold  the  postal  card  close  to  his  eyes  in 
order  to  decipher  its  faintly-penciled  message. 

FRIEND  MARY  : 

Pete  he  has  fallin'  fits  now  and  he's  often  took  worse,  so  it  don't 
suit  just  so  very  convenynt  and  the  horse  he  has  bots  and  this 
after  the  mare  she  got  pink  eye  for  me  but  if  the  weather  ain't 
inclement  and  we  can  make  it  so  it  suits  yet  for  one  of  the  horses 
we  will  come  then  if  Sally's  foot  gets  better  she's  got  it  so  bad  in 
her  foot. 

Respectfullie 

EBENEZER  DUTTONHOFFER 

"Ach,"  said  Mr.  Seidensticker;  "them  Duttonhoffers 
was  always  a  ridic'lous  fambly  for  havin'  things  happen  of 
'em.  They'll  all  be  here,  you  mind  if  they  ain't !  Pete  with 
his  fallin'  fits  and  Sally  with  her  leg  or  foot  or  whatever  — 
and  every  one  of  'em.  They're  always  close  by  when  they 
know  a  body's  goin'  to  have  entertainment.  And  when 
you  go  to  their  place  they're  just  that  near  they  never  ast 
you  to  eat.  Ach,  mebbe  they'll  ast  you  to  pick  a  piece  — 
but  they  ain't  givin'  you  no  square  meal." 

"Here's  one  from  Cocalico,"  said  Mrs.  Seidensticker. 
"That  must  be  from  Sister  Lizzie  Miller.  Here,  Si." 

"You'd  better  make  the  lamp  lit  then.  I  can't  hardly  see 
no  more,"  said  Silas, 


110  AMERICAN  TYPES 

"There's  just  only  this  one  any  more;  I  guess  you  can 
make  out  to  read  that." 

"Gimme  here,  then." 

Silas  changed  his  position  a  bit  and  strained  his  eyes  to 
read. 

SISTER  MARY  : 

I  wish  you  the  grace  and  Piece  of  the  Lord.  Mamie  got  Daniel's 
Invitation  all  right  she  was  snitzing  the  apples  and  cut  herself  so 
ugly  in  the  thumb  I'm  writing  for  her  I'd  leave  her  come  if  I  other- 
wise could  but  I  don't  know  what  to  wear  on  her.  I'd  sooner  she'd 
go  as  stay  for  all  we're  getting  strangers  Thursdays  and  we've 
made  out  to  clean  the  kitchen  to-morrow,  so  I  don't  know  how 
long  it  will  go  before  I  can  get  time  to  make  her  a  new  dress 
already.  It  would  be  wishful  for  her  to  have  a  new  dress  her  other 
one  where  she  bought  off  of  Haverbushes  is  wore  out  yet. 

SISTER  LIZZIE 

"Sister  Lizzie's  a  wonderful  hard-workin'  woman,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Seidensticker.  "And  now  her  children's  all 
growed  up  over  her,  she  works  as  hard  as  ever  she  did  still. 
And  her  man,  he  always  used  her  so  mean  that  way." 

"Does  he  farm  yet?"  inquired  Mr.  Seidensticker,  who, 
having  washed  his  hands  at  the  pump  close  by  the  porch, 
while  listening  to  the  letters,  was  now  drying  them  on  one 
of  the  roller-towels  which  hung  on  the  brick  wall  of  the 
house. 

The  Seidensticker  towel-system  was  unique.  Two  towels 
always  hung  on  the  side  of  the  house,  one  of  them  doing  its 
second  week  of  service  for  the  entire  family,  the  other  its 
first  —  the  former  being  used  exclusively  for  hands,  and 
the  fresher  one  for  faces.  The  pump,  the  two  roller-towels, 
and  one  "wash  rag  "  hanging  over  the  top  of  the  pump  (and 
known  in  the  family  as  the  wash  rag)  constituted  the  only 
toilet  appointments  of  the  household. 

"Whether  Sister  Lizzie's  man  farms?"  inquiringly  re- 
peated Mrs.  Seidensticker.  "No,  he  don't  carry  on  no  thin* 
now.  He's  such  a  wonderful  man  for  snitz  pie.  I  guess  that's 


ELLIE'S  FURNISHING  111 

why  they're  snitzing  so  early.  Their  winter  snits  mebbe 
give  out  for  'em.  Yes,  Lizzie's  man  was  always  a  friend' to 
pie.  And  he  always  sayed  to  Lizzie,  'Put  right  much  sugar 
on  it.'  Lizzie  thought  that's  what  made  his  teeth  go  so 
fast,  so's  he  had  to  get  his  store  ones  already.  He's  got  his 
store  teeth  better'n  thirty  years  now." 

The  sound,  at  this  minute,  of  wheels  in  the  distance,  on 
the  road  which  passed  their  gate,  suddenly  set  the  whole 
family  on  the  qui  vive  of  expectation.  Jakey  leaped  like  a 
squirrel  from  the  porch  railing  and  ran  to  the  front  fence. 
Mr.  Seidensticker  dropped  the  family  hand-towel  and 
craned  his  long  thin  neck  around  the  pump;  Silas,  Ellie, 
and  Mrs.  Seidensticker  leaned  forward  expectantly. 

Not  that  they  were  dreading  or  pleasantly  anticipating 
(as  might  have  appeared)  either  a  foe  or  a  friend  in  the  ap- 
proaching vehicle ;  but  in  the  dull  monotony  of  their  lives 
the  passing  of  a  wagon  was  an  episode  of  exciting  interest. 
For  a  wagon  to  pass  a  Lancaster  County  farmhouse,  and 
the  inmates  thereof  to  miss  seeing  whose  wagon  it  was,  was 
a  mishap  to  be  lamented  for  days  to  come. 

"It's  John  Herr's !"  Jakey  called,  as  soon  as  the  horse 
was  near  enough  for  him  to  recognize  it. 

"Oh,  him  !"  Mrs.  Seidensticker  said  in  a  tone  of  satisfied 
curiosity.  "I  guess  he's  been  in  to  Canaan  for  his  mail, 
mebbe." 

When  John  Herr's  buggy  had  passed  and  disappeared, 
Jakey  came  back  to  the  porch. 

"Did  you  fetch  the  mail  for  Abe's  this  evening?"  Mrs. 
Seidensticker  inquired  of  the  child. 

"Abe's"  was  their  designation  for  the  household,  a  half- 
mile  distant,  belonging  to  the  young  married  sister  of  Mrs. 
Seidensticker,  who  had  married  a  farmer  named  Abe 
Kuhns. 

"  Whether  I  fetched  the  mail  for  Abe's  ?  "  repeated  Jakey. 
"Yes,  I  fetched  it  down  to  'em  then." 


112  AMERICAN  TYPES 

"What  did  they  get?" 

"Nothin*  but  the  Weekly  Intelligencer"  Jakey  replied, 
taking  a  handful  of  dried  apples  out  of  a  pan  on  the  porch 
bench  and  beginning  to  eat  them. 

"You're  to  leave  them  snits  be  now,"  admonished  his 
mother. 

"I  didn't  eat  very  hearty  at  supper,"  argued  Jakey.  "I 
had  to  hurry  to  get  done  once,  to  go  for  the  mail  already, 
and  I  had  only  butter-bread  and  coffee  soup." 

"Well,  if  you  feel  for  some  more  supper,  go  to  the  cup- 
board and  get  a  piece.  Don't  eat  them  snits.  They're  un- 
healthy when  they  ain't  cooked." 

"I  like  'em  better'n  a  piece,"  protested  Jakey,  though  he 
obediently  put  them  back  into  the  pan ;  the  children  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Dutch  are  reared  in  old-fashioned  implicit 
obedience  to  parental  authority. 

"But  you  wouldn't  like  the  stomeek  ache  you'd  mebbe 
get  if  you  eat  'em,"  said  his  father.  "A  body  must  be  a 
little  forethoughted  that  way  about  what  they  eat  still." 

Mrs.  Seidensticker's  stout  figure  rose  heavily  from  her 
rocking-chair. 

"I'd  mebbe  better  come  in  now.  You  just  stay  settin'," 
she  added  to  Ellie.  "You  seem  like  as  if  you  was  a  little 
tired.  You're  so  quiet  this  evening.  Ain't  you  mebbe  feelin' 
good,  Ellie?" 

"Oh,  I'm  feelin'  just  so  middlin',"  Ellie  softly  answered. 

"Is  Sam  comin'  to-night?" 

Ellie  rose  from  her  straight-backed  seat  and  took  her 
mother's  low  rocking-chair.  "He  didn't  speak  nothin* 
about  when  he'd  come  over  again,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  bed,"  her  mother  announced  with  a 
yawn  as  she  walked  to  the  kitchen  door.  "Are  you  comin', 
Pop?" 

"I  might  as  well,  I  guess." 

Silas  and  Jakey,  without  comment,  followed  their  par- 


ELLIE'S  FURNISHING  113 

ents  indoors  and  left  Ellie  alone  on  the  porch.  It  was  gen- 
erally understood  that  the  coast  must  be  clear  for  a  pos- 
sible visit  from  Sam. 

Sam  Shunk  had  been  Ellie  Seidensticker's  "steady  regu- 
lar gentleman  friend,"  not  only  for  the  past  four  months, 
since  her  eighteenth  birthday,  but  he  had  "kept  steady 
comp'ny  "  with  her  even  before  either  he  or  she  had  reached 
the  age  or  the  worldly  condition  when  "settin*  up  Sa'ur- 
days  "  was,  according  to  the  social  rubrics  of  Canaan  Town- 
ship, the  proper  and  conventional  procedure.  Time  had, 
therefore,  established  his  prerogative  to  the  sobriquet  of 
"Friend"  with  a  capital  F  and  an  especial  significance. 

Left  alone  on  the  porch  in  the  gathering  spring  twilight, 
Ellie's  pretty  head  drooped  upon  her  breast,  and  a  long, 
tired  sigh  swelled  her  young  bosom.  Presently  two  big 
tears  trickled  over  her  pale  cheeks  and  a  little  gasping  sigh 
came  from  her  throat.  The  measure  of  her  Spartan  self- 
control  in  the  presence  of  her  family  was  the  exceeding 
trouble  and  distress  manifest  just  now  in  every  line  of  her 
relaxed  form  and  delicate  face. 

The  secret  grief  that  was  rending  her  was  the  realization 
that  she  must  give  up  Sam.  In  anguish  of  spirit  she  asked 
herself  how  she  could  ever  bring  herself  to  do  it.  For,  oh, 
she  loved  him !  He  was  so  kind,  so  strong,  so  handsome ! 
In  all  the  township,  where  was  his  peer  ?  Her  soul  was  knit 
to  his  and  she  did  not,  she  did  not,  want  to  give  him  up  ! 

But  she  must.  Sam  belonged  to  the  World.  And  she  — 
she  was  about  to  give  herself  to  the  service  of  her  Lord  and 
Master,  who  forbade  that  His  children  be  unequally  yoked 
together  with  unbelievers. 

It  was  the  "Furnishing"  that  had  brought  Ellie  to  this 
state  of  self-abnegation.  Her  mother,  as  has  been  said,  was 
a  New  Mennonite.  The  creed  of  this  sect,  forbidding  not 
only  gay  apparel,  but  also  any  but  the  plainest  and  sim- 
plest of  household  furnishings,  the  custom  has  grown  up 


114  AMERICAN  TYPES 

among  its  members  of  leaving  the  "front  room"  of  their 
homes  unfurnished  until  the  eldest  daughter  shall  have 
come  of  age,  when,  if  by  that  time  she  has  not  been  moved 
by  the  spirit  to  "give  herself  up,"  that  is,  to  abandon  the 
vain  pomps  and  glories  of  this  wicked  world,  "turn  plain" 
and  join  the  New  Mennonites,  her  parents  give  vent  to 
their  long  repressed  human  instincts  for  adornment  and 
fit  up  the  parlor  for  her  in  the  best  style  they  can  afford. 

New  Mennonites  never  force  their  own  convictions  upon 
their  children,  for  since  it  is  the  Spirit  only,  and  not  any 
human  agent,  which  can  teach  men  the  way  of  salvation, 
and  as  the  "mere  morality"  of  the  unconverted  can  never 
be  counted  unto  a  man  for  righteousness,  either  he  must,  of 
his  own  free  will  and  accord  and  without  outside  influence, 
give  himself  absolutely  and  entirely  to  the  Lord's  service,  or 
else  be  a  child  of  "the  Enemy"  outright.  There  is  no 
medium  course.  It  is  thus  that  the  New  Mennonites  ex- 
plain the  seeming  inconsistency  of  freely  allowing  to  their 
children  the  "vanities"  which  they  themselves  eschew  as 
sinful. 

The  event  regularly  known  in  Lancaster  County  as 
"Furnishing"  is,  next  to  marriage,  the  most  auspicious 
time  in  a  young  girl's  life.  As  soon  as  her  parents  have 
"furnished"  for  her,  she  is  expected  to  enter  upon  her 
matrimonial  campaign  and,  anon,  settle  down  to  "keep 
comp'ny"  with  one  especial  "Friend,"  whom,  as  soon  as 
convenient,  she  marries,  and  then  the  furniture  of  her  par- 
lor is  taken  with  her  into  her  own  new  home. 

Now  Ellie  had  always  anticipated  with  delight  the  time 
of  her  "Furnishing,"  and  when  it  had  at  last  arrived,  she 
threw  herself,  heart  and  soul,  into  the  joy  of  choosing  her 
"things"  —  the  cabinet  organ,  the  "stuffed"  sofa  and 
chairs,  the  marble-topped  table,  plush  album,  gilt-framed 
"Snow  Scene,"  and  Brussels  carpet.  Sam  had  gone  with 
her,  one  Saturday  morning,  to  Lancaster,  to  help  her  do 


ELLIE'S  FURNISHING  115 

her  choosing.  Later  in  the  day  he  and  she  had  gone  to  the 
Vaudeville  Show  at  the  Park,  and  it  had  been  the  shock  of 
the  latter,  combined  with  what  she  had  suddenly  felt  to  be 
the  wicked  selfishness  of  her  enormous  expenditures  for 
things  unnecessary  for  the  soul  and  only  pleasing  to  the 
worldly  eye,  that  had  brought  her  to  a  realization  of  the 
frivolity  and  error  of  temporizing  with  the  World,  and  had 
convinced  her  of  her  duty  to  abandon  its  pomps  and  hol- 
lowness;  to  seek  and  hold  fast  to  the  Truth  that  the 
Saviour  had  died  to  reveal  to  cold  and  indifferent  man. 
Her  religious  nature  was  awakened,  and  with  clear  vision 
she  saw  the  real  things  of  her  life  in  their  true  contrast 
to  its  vanities.  She  knew,  with  a  fatal  certainty,  that  never 
again  would  she  find  joy  in  the  things  that  heretofore  had 
absorbed  her  to  the  neglect  of  her  soul's  salvation.  She 
must  give  herself  up.  And  she  must  therefore  abandon 
Sam. 

How  was  she  ever  to  break  it  to  him,  loving  and  trusting 
her  as  he  did? 

"What '11  he  think  of  me,  comin'  with  somepin'  like  this 
and  my  promise  passed  only  four  weeks  a 'ready.  And  he's 
so  much  for  me  to  dress !  And  I  was  always  so  wonderful 
stylish  !  How  will  I  ever  tell  him  I'm  turnin'  plain  as  soon 
as  I  otherwise  can?" 

But  this  weakness,  she  knew,  was  only  a  temptation  of 
the  Enemy  of  her  soul,  who  watched  every  thought  of  her 
heart,  to  trip  her  up  and  drag  her  back  into  the  World  at 
the  least  opportunity. 

Meanwhile,  while  Ellie  was  sitting  on  the  porch  in  the 
May  twilight,  battling  with  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  in 
the  sacrifice  which  she  was  called  upon  to  make  for  the 
faith  that  was  in  her,  Sam  Shunk  was  trudging  down  the 
road,  towards  the  home  of  his  sweetheart,  on  an  errand  that 
made  every  step  of  this  usually  blissful  walk  one  of  pain 
and  effort. 


116  AMERICAN  TYPES 

He  found  Ellie  alone  on  the  porch  where,  a  few  moments 
before,  her  family  had  left  her. 

The  new  pink  shirt-waist  which  she  wore  made  her 
cheeks  look  so  like  ripe  peaches  that,  for  a  forgetful  instant, 
he  anticipated  with  satisfaction  the  kisses  he  would  pres- 
ently press  upon  their  downy  softness.  But  only  for  an 
instant.  The  chilling  remembrance  came  to  him  of  the 
sad  purport  of  his  visit  to  her  to-night. 

With  a  heavy  heart  he  seated  himself  in  the  rocking- 
chair  at  her  side. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  his  own  mental  burden  that  he 
failed  to  notice  how  subdued  and  reserved  was  the  greeting 
which  she  gave  him. 

From  force  of  habit  he  began  with  his  usual  form  of  social 
intercourse  in  opening  up  his  customary  weekly  stint  of 
courting. 

"Nice  evening,  this  evening;  say  not?" 

"Ain't !"  Ellie's  low  soft  voice  agreed. 

" How's  the  folks?" 

"  They  re  pretty  well." 

A  faint  impression  of  something  unaccustomed  in  her 
tone  caused  Sam  to  steal  a  glance  at  her  fair  and  delicate 
face  at  his  side. 

"How's  your  Mom?"  he  inquired  conversationally. 
Sam  was  not  brilliant  in  dialogue,  and  as  Ellie  herself  was 
usually  not  remarkably  articulate,  their  social  intercourse 
was  sometimes  a  little  difficult. 

"She's  pretty  well,  too,"  she  replied. 

"How's  your  Pop?" 

"He's  old-fashioned." 

Sam  gently  rocked  his  chair  and  gazed  out  across  the 
darkening  lawn. 

"Nice  evening,  this  evening,  ain't  it  is,"  he  returned  to 
the  charge. 

"Yes,  anyhow,"  sweetly  agreed  Ellie. 


ELLIE'S  FURNISHING  117 

"How's  Jakey?" 

"He's  pretty  well." 

"Is  Si  well,  too  ?"  Sam  asked  by  way  of  variety. 

"Yes,  he's  pretty  well." 

They  rocked  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 

"I'm  glad  the  folks  is  all  well." 

"Yes,  they're  all  right  good,"  Ellie  consented  with  com- 
placent absence  of  originality. 

"It's  right  warm,  ain't?" 

"  Yes,  Pop  he  sayed  it  would  make  somepin*  down  before 
morning,  he  thought." 

"  Say,  Ellie !  I  don't  trust  to  be  on  them  trolley  cars  in 
Lancaster  when  it's  goin'  to  give  a  gust.  Last  time  I  was 
goin'  to  take  a  trolley  ride,  I  seen  it  was  thunderin'  and 
I  tole  the  conductor  I  wanted  off  right  away  at  the  corner 
already." 

"I  guess!  "Ellie  nodded. 

Sam  now  fell  into  a  temporary  silence  as  he  gloomily  con- 
templated the  dread  task  at  his  hands  of  telling  Ellie  the 
object  of  his  visit.  Again  he  stole  a  side  glance  at  her,  and 
the  strange,  plaintive  look  he  detected  about  her  sweet  eyes 
smote  his  big,  generous  heart.  How  could  he  make  her 
unhappy  ?  She  trusted  him  and  believed  in  his  love  for  her. 
What  should  he  do? 

"Say,  Ellie?" 

"What,  Sam?" 

"That  man  in  the  dime  matynee  in  there  at  Lancaster, 
last  Sa'urday,  that  could  twist  himself  so  queer,  still,  say, 
Ellie,  that  was  false  hair  he  had  on  1 " 

"You  think!" 

"I'm  pretty  near  sure." 

"Now  think!"  Ellie  said  wonderingly. 

"And  that  colored  lady  you  mind  of  —  that  sung  sich  a 
touchin'  piece  about  *  I  wisht  my  color  would  fade ' ;  say, 
Ellie,  she  was  only  a  white  person  with  shoe-blacking  or 
whatever  on  her  face  !" 


118  AMERICAN  TYPES 

"I  say !"  cried  Ellie  in  surprise. 

"A  body  hadn't  ought  to  give  their  countenance  to  sich 
shows  like  what  them  is,  Ellie.  It  don't  do  a  person  no 
good." 

"No,  Sam,  I  don't  think  so  nuther.  And  if  you  feel  a 
little  conscientious,  you'd  better  let  sich  things  be, 
.then." 

"Ellie,  I  got  to  tell  you  somepin' !" 

"Don't  tell  me  to-night,  Sam,"  Ellie  pleaded,  feeling 
sure  he  was  going  to  press  her  to  name  their  wedding-day, 
as  he  had  lately  been  doing  most  strenuously.  "I  ain't 
feelin'  good  to-night.  Don't  speak  nothin'  to  me  to-night." 

"I  can't  help  for  that  —  I  got  to  tell  you  this  here.  Say, 
Ellie,  it  ain't  that  I  haven't  got  no  love  to  you  —  but 
indeed,  Ellie,  I  can't  marry  you." 

Ellie  slowly  turned  hi  her  chair  and  gazed  at  him  in  the 
deepening  darkness. 

"Why  not,  Sam?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  he 
scarcely  caught  her  words. 

"Ellie,  I'm  going  to  give  myself  up!" 

"Oh,  Sam!" 

"Don't  tempt  me  not  to!"  he  cried  almost  piteously. 
"I  want  you  —  you  know  how  bad  I  want  you  —  but 
you're  in  the  World,  Ellie,  and  I  can't  marry  you !  If  it 
breaks  my  heart  and  yours,  I've  got  to  leave  you  and  cleave 
unto  Christ !  It  was  goin'  with  you  to  town  done  it  —  and 
buyin'  them  things  for  your  '  Furnishing '  and  then  seein' 
the  dime  matynee.  I  seen,  Ellie,  how  pleasing  to  the  eye  it 
was,  but  not  for  the  glory  of  Gawd.  And  I  can't  never  no 
more  give  my  countenance  to  fashionable  things.  I'm 
turnin'  plain  as  soon  as  I  can  get  to  town  to  get  my  plain 
clo'es  once.  Servin'  the  Lord  ain't  easy,  it  ain't  easy,"  he 
said.  "You  mind  where  the  Bible  says,  'If  a  man  smite 
thee,  turn  him  the  other  cheek.'  That's  pretty  hard,  and  it 
wouldn't  suit  me  so  well  to  do  it.  Indeed,  I  say  that.  But  I 


ELLIE'S  FURNISHING  119 

must  do  all  them  things  if  I'm  a  child  of  Gawd.  And  John 
Souders  preached  how  he  seen  'em  die  horrible  already 
when  they  was  unconverted." 

"But,  Sam— " 

"Ellie!"  Sam  quickly  interrupted,  as  though  dreading 
the  effect  of  her  pleading,  "it's  like  dyin'  to  me  to  give  you 
up.  I'd  most  ruther  be  dead.  But  it's  my  duty.  Last  night 
my  sins  opened  up  before  me  and  I  was  wonderful  con- 
cerned ;  and  at  last,  after  a  great  struggle,  I  made  up  my 
mind  I'd  give  myself  to  the  guidance  of  the  Spirit.  Then, 
here  this  mornin',  already,  when  I  fell  awake,  the  Enemy 
was  temptin'  me,  and  he  tole  me  how  pretty  you  was  and 
how  sweet,  Ellie.  But,"  Sam  solemnly  added,  "I've  over- 
come the  Enemy,  and  I  come  here  to-night  yet  to  give  you 
good-bye." 

Only  "the  angels  in  the  heavens  above  and  the  demons 
down  under  the  sea"  could  measure  the  sacrifice  which  the 
stalwart  youth  was  thus  making  in  his  loyalty  to  what  he 
felt  to  be  a  larger  truth  of  life  than  any  mere  personal  rela- 
tion of  his  own. 

"Sam  !  Sam !  Listen  at  me." 

Ellie  leaned  forward  in  her  eagerness  and  clasped  his  big 
arm  with  both  her  hands. 

"7  got  in  trouble,  too,  Sam,  about  my  sins,  after  we'd 
been  to  town.  I  was  in  wonderful  trouble,  Sam.  And  that 
evening,"  she  eagerly  went  on,  "the  sky  got  so  red  I 
thought  the  world  would  go  to  an  end.  And  next  day  I 
seen  how  nice  and  humble  Mom  looked  in  her  plain  dress  — 
and,  Sam,  I  hated  my  Furniture  and  my  fashionable 
clo'es !  And  that  next  evening,  the  sky  was  redder  than 
ever !  And  Sam,  I  let  loose  of  everything  —  my  clo'es,  my 
Furniture,  the  party  —  and  you  —  and  joined  to  the  Lord  ! 
And  this  morning  I  went  over  to  Mamie  Herr's  that  I  got 
mad  at  'cause  she  talked  down  on  you  —  and  I  knowed  I 
must  be  made  satisfied  with  all  my  enemies,  so  I  tole  her 


120  AMERICAN  TYPES 

I  was  n't  any  more  mad  yet.  And,  oh,  Sam,  it  never  sus- 
picioned  me  that  the  Spirit  was  guidin'  you,  too  !" 

Sam's  arms  were  about  her  now,  and  she  was  clinging  to 
him: 

"'Gawd  works  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform.' " 

"Ain't  he   does,   Ellie!"   he   whispered,   pressing  an 
ecstatic  kiss  upon  her  lips. 
"Ain't  he  does!"  was  Ellie's  rapturous  response. 


AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 
STORIES  OF  SOCIAL  HERITAGE 


Forgotten!  No!  we  cannot  all  forget, 

Or,  when  we  do,  farewell  to  Honor's  face, 
To  Hope's  sweet  tendance,  Valor's  unpaid  debt,* 

And  every  noblest  Grace, 
Which,  nursed  in  Love,  might  still  benignly  bloom 

Above  a  nation  s  tomb! 

Forgotten!  Tho'  a  thousand  years  should  pass, 
Methinks  our  air  will  throb  with  memory's  thrittsf 

A  conscious  grief  weigh  down  the  faltering  grasst 
A  pathos  shroud  the  hills, 

Waves  roll  lamenting^  autumn  sunsets  yearn 
For  the  old  time's  return! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE,  Poems  of  the  War 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  TRUE 

SOUTHERN  LADY1 
BY  FRANCIS  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

"MISTRESS  yer,  sah !  Come  yistidd'y  mawnin'." 

How  Chad  beamed  all  over  when  this  simple  statement 
fell  from  his  lips  ! 

I  had  not  seen  him  since  the  night  when  he  stood  behind 
my  chair  and  with  bated  breath  whispered  his  anxieties 
lest  the  second  advent  of  "de  grocerman"  should  bring 
dire  destruction  to  the  Colonel's  household. 

To-day  he  looked  ten  years  younger.  His  kinky  gray 
hair,  generally  knotted  into  little  wads,  was  now  divided  by 
a  well-defined  path  starting  from  the  great  wrinkle  in  his 
forehead  and  ending  in  a  dense  tangle  of  underbrush  that 
no  comb  dared  penetrate.  His  face  glistened  all  over.  His 
mouth  was  wide  open,  showing  a  great  cavity  in  which 
each  tooth  seemed  to  dance  with  delight.  His  jacket  was  as 
white  and  stiff  as  soap  and  starch  could  make  it,  while  a 
cast-off  cravat  of  the  Colonel's  —  double  starched  to  suit 
Chad's  own  ideas  of  propriety  —  was  tied  in  a  single  knot, 
the  two  ends  reaching  to  the  very  edge  of  each  ear.  To 
crown  all,  a  red  carnation  flamed  away  on  the  lapel  of  his 
jacket,  just  above  an  outside  pocket,  which  held  in  check 
a  pair  of  white  cotton  gloves  bulging  with  importance  and 
eager  for  use.  Every  time  he  bowed  he  touched  with  a 
sweep  both  sides  of  the  narrow  hall. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  some  weeks  that  I  had  seen  the 
interior  of  the  Colonel's  cozy  dining-room  by  daylight.  Of 
late  my  visits  had  been  made  after  dark,  with  drawn  cur- 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville,  by  F. 
Hopkinson  Smith.  Copyright  by  Houghton  MifSin  Company. 


124  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

tains,  lighted  candles,  and  roaring  wood  fires.  But  this 
time  it  was  in  the  morning  —  and  a  bright,  sunny,  lovely 
spring  morning  at  that  —  with  one  window  open  in  the  L 
and  the  curtains  drawn  back  from  the  other;  with  the 
honeysuckle  beginning  to  bud,  its  long  runners  twisting 
themselves  inquiringly  through  the  half -closed  shutters  as 
if  anxious  to  discover  what  all  this  bustle  inside  was  about. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  some  other  touch  besides  that  of 
the  Colonel  and  his  faithful  man-of -all-work  had  left  its 
impress  in  the  bachelor  apartment.  There  was  a  general 
air  of  order  apparent.  The  irregular  line  of  footgear  which 
decorated  the  washboard  of  one  wall,  beginning  with  a  pair 
of  worsted  slippers  and  ending  with  a  wooden  bootjack, 
was  gone.  Whisk-brooms  and  dusters  that  had  never 
known  a  restful  nail  since  they  entered  the  Colonel's  serv- 
ice were  now  suspended  peacefully  on  convenient  hooks. 
Dainty  white  curtains,  gathered  like  a  child's  frock,  flapped 
lazily  against  the  broken  green  blinds,  while  some  sprays 
of  arbutus,  plucked  by  Miss  Nancy  on  her  way  to  the  rail- 
road station,  drooped  about  a  tall  glass  on  the  mantel. 

Chad  had  solved  the  mystery  —  Aunt  Nancy  came 
yesterday. 

I  found  the  table  set  for  four,  its  chief  feature  being  a 
tray  bearing  a  heap  of  eggshell  cups  and  saucers  I  had  not 
seen  before,  and  an  old-fashioned  tea-urn  humming  a  tune 
all  to  itself. 

"De  Colonel's  out,  but  he  comin'  back  d'rektly,"  Chad 
said  eagerly,  all  out  of  breath  with  excitement.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  information  that  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  was  coming  to 
breakfast,  and  that  he  was  to  tell  Miss  Nancy  the  moment 
we  arrived.  He  then  reduced  the  bulge  in  his  outside 
pocket  by  thrusting  his  big  hands  into  his  white  gloves, 
gave  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  and 
bore  my  card  aloft  with  the  air  of  a  cupbearer  serving  a 
princess. 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  TRUE  SOUTHERN  LADY    125 

A  soft  step  on  the  stair,  the  rustle  of  silk,  a  warning  word 
outside:  "Look  out  for  dat  lower  step,  mistress  —  dat's 
it" ;  and  Miss  Nancy  entered  the  room. 

No,  I  am  wrong.  She  became  a  part  of  it ;  as  much  so  as 
the  old  andirons  and  the  easy-chairs  and  the  old-fashioned 
mantelpieces,  the  snowy  curtains  and  the  trailing  vine. 
More  so  when  she  gave  me  the  slightest  dip  of  a  curtsy  and 
laid  her  dainty,  wrinkled  little  hand  in  mine,  and  said  in 
the  sweetest  possible  voice  how  glad  she  was  to  see  me  after 
so  many  years,  and  how  grateful  she  felt  for  all  my  kind- 
ness to  the  dear  Colonel.  Then  she  sank  into  a  quaint  rock- 
ing-chair that  Chad  had  brought  down  behind  her,  rested 
her  feet  on  a  low  stool  that  mysteriously  appeared  from 
under  the  table,  and  took  her  knitting  from  her  reticule. 

She  had  changed  somewhat  since  I  last  saw  her,  but  only 
as  would  an  old  bit  of  precious  stuff  that  grew  the  more 
mellow  and  harmonious  in  tone  as  it  grew  the  older.  She 
had  the  same  silky  gray  hair  —  a  trifle  whiter,  perhaps ;  the 
same  frank,  tender  mouth,  winning  wherever  she  smiled ; 
the  same  slight,  graceful  figure ;  and  the  same  manner  — 
its  very  simplicity  a  reflex  of  that  refined  and  quiet  life  she 
had  always  led.  For  hers  had  been  an  isolated  life,  buried 
since  her  girlhood  in  a  great  house  far  away  from  the 
broadening  influences  of  a  city,  and  saddened  by  the  daily 
witness  of  a  slow  decay  of  all  she  had  been  taught  to  revere. 
But  it  had  been  a  life  so  filled  with  the  largeness  of  generous 
deeds  that  its  returns  had  brought  her  the  love  and  rever- 
ence of  every  living  soul  she  knew. 

While  she  sat  and  talked  to  me  of  her  journey  I  ha,d  time 
to  enjoy  again  the  quaintness  of  her  dress  —  the  quaint- 
ness  of  forty  years  before.  There  was  the  same  old-fash- 
ioned, soft  gray  silk  with  up-and-down  stripes  spotted  with 
sprigs  of  flowers,  the  lace  cap  with  its  frill  of  narrow  pink 
ribbons  and  two  wide  pink  strings  that  fell  over  the 
shoulders,  and  the  handkerchief  of  India  mull  folded  across 


126  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

the  breast  and  fastened  with  an  amethyst  pin.  Her  little 
bits  of  feet  —  they  were  literally  so  —  were  encased  in 
white  stockings  and  heelless  morocco  slippers  bound  with 
braid. 

But  her  dress  was  never  somber.  She  always  seemed  to 
remember,  even  in  her  bright  ribbons  and  silks,  the  days  of 
her  girlhood,  when  half  the  young  men  in  the  county  were 
wild  about  her.  When  she  moved  she  wafted  towards  you 
a  perfume  of  sweet  lavender  —  the  very  smell  that  you 
remember  came  from  your  own  mother's  old-fashioned 
bureau  drawer  when  she  let  you  stand  on  tiptoe  to  see  her 
pretty  things.  When  you  kissed  her  —  and  once  I  did  — 
her  cheek  was  as  soft  as  a  child's  and  fragrant  with  rose- 
water. 

But  I  hear  the  Colonel's  voice  outside,  laughing  with 
Fitz. 

"Come  in,  suh,  and  see  the  dearest  woman  in  the  world." 

The  next  instant  he  burst  in  dressed  in  his  gala  combina- 
tion—  white  waistcoat  and  cravat,  the  old  coat  thrown 
wide  open  as  if  to  welcome  the  world,  and  a  bunch  of  red 
roses  in  his  hand. 

"Nancy,  here's  my  dear  friend  Fitz,  whom  I  have  told 
you  about  —  the  most  extraord'nary  man  of  modern  times. 
Ah,  Major !  you  here  ?  Came  in  early,  did  you,  so  as  to 
have  Aunt  Nancy  all  to  yo'self  ?  Sit  down,  Fitz,  right  along- 
side of  her."  And  he  kissed  her  hand  gallantly.  "Isn't  she 
the  most  delightful  bit  of  old  porcelain  you  ever  saw  in  all 
yo'  bawn  days?" 

Miss  Nancy  rose,  made  another  of  her  graceful  curtsies, 
and  begged  that  neither  of  us  would  mind  the  Colonel's 
raillery;  she  never  could  keep  him  in  order.  And  she 
laughed  softly  as  she  gave  her  hand  to  Fitz,  who  touched  it 
very  much  as  if  he  quite  believed  the  Colonel's  reference  to 
the  porcelain  to  be  true. 

"There  you  go,  Nancy,  'busin'  me  like  a  dog,  and  here 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  TRUE  SOUTHERN  LADY    127 

I've  been  a-trampin'  the  streets  for  a'  hour  lookin'  for  flow- 
ers for  you  !  You  are  breakin'  my  heart,  Miss  Caarter,  with 
yo'  coldness  and  contempt.  Another  word  and  you  shall 
not  have  a  single  bud."  And  the  Colonel  gayly  tucked  a 
rose  under  her  chin  with  a  loving  stroke  of  his  hand,  and 
threw  the  others  in  a  heap  on  her  lap. 

"Breakfast  sarved,  mistress,"  said  Chad  in  a  low  voice. 

The  Colonel  gave  his  arm  to  his  aunt  with  the  air  of  a 
courtier ;  Fitz  and  I  disposed  ourselves  on  each  side ;  Chad, 
with  reverential  mien,  screwed  his  eyes  up  tight ;  and  the 
Colonel  said  grace  with  an  increased  fervor  in  his  voice,  no 
doubt  remembering  in  his  heart  the  blessing  of  the  last 
arrival. 

Throughout  the  entire  repast  the  Colonel  was  in  his 
gayest  mood,  brimming  over  with  anecdotes  and  personal 
reminiscences  and  full  of  his  rose-colored  plans  for  the 
future. 

Many  things  had  combined  to  produce  this  happy  frame 
of  mind.  There  was  first  the  Scheme,  which  had  languished 
for  weeks  owing  to  the  vise-like  condition  of  the  money 
market  —  another  of  Fitz's  mendacious  excuses  —  and 
which  had  now  been  suddenly  galvanized  into  temporary 
life  by  an  inquiry  made  by  certain  bankers  who  were  seek- 
ing an  outlet  for  English  capital,  and  who  had  expressed  a 
desire  to  investigate  the  "Garden  Spot  of  Virginia."  Only 
an  "inquiry,"  but  to  the  Colonel  the  papers  were  already 
signed.  Then  there  was  the  arrival  of  his  distinguished 
guest,  whom  he  loved  devotedly  and  with  a  certain  old- 
school  gallantry  and  tenderness  as  picturesque  as  it  was 
interesting.  Last  of  all  there  was  that  important  episode 
of  the  bills.  For  Miss  Nancy,  the  night  she  arrived,  had 
collected  all  the  household  accounts,  including  the  highly 
esteemed  passbook  —  they  were  all  of  the  one  kind,  un- 
paid —  and  had  dispatched  Chad  early  in  the  morning  to 


128  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

the  several  creditors  with  his  pocket  full  of  crisp  bank- 
notes. 

Chad  had  returned  from  this  liquidating  tour,  and  the 
full  meaning  of  that  trusty  agent's  mission  had  dawned 
upon  the  Colonel.  He  buttoned  his  coat  tightly  over  his 
chest,  straightened  himself  up,  sought  out  his  aunt,  and 
said,  with  some  dignity  and  a  slightly  injured  air : 

"Nancy,  yo'  interfe'ence  in  my  household  affairs  this 
mornin'  was  vehy  creditable  to  yo'  heart,  and  deeply 
touches  me ;  but  if  I  thought  you  regarded  it  in  any  other 
light  except  as  a  short  tempo'ary  loan,  it  would  offend  me 
keenly.  Within  a  few  days,  however,  I  shall  receive  a  vehy 
large  amount  of  securities  from  an  English  syndicate  that  is 
investigatin'  my  railroad.  I  shall  then  return  the  amount 
to  you  with  interest,  together  with  that  other  sum  which 
you  loaned  me  when  I  left  Caarter  Hall." 

The  little  lady's  only  reply  was  to  slip  her  hand  into  his 
and  kiss  him  on  the  forehead. 

And  yet  that  very  morning  he  had  turned  his  pockets 
inside  out  for  the  remains  of  the  last  dollar  of  the  money 
she  had  given  him  when  he  left  home.  When  it  had  all 
been  raked  together,  and  its  pitiable  insufficiency  had 
become  apparent,  this  dialogue  took  place  : 

"Chad,  did  you  find  any  money  on  the  flo*  when  you 
breshed  my  clothes?" 

"No,  Colonel." 

"Look  round  on  the  mantelpiece;  perhaps  I  left  some 
bills  under  the  clock." 

"Ain't  none  dar,  sah." 

Then  Chad,  with  that  same  anxious  look  suddenly  re- 
vived in  his  face,  wrent  below  into  the  kitchen,  mounted  a 
chair,  took  down  an  old  broken  tea-cup  from  the  top  shelf, 
and  poured  out  into  his  wrinkled  palm  a  handful  of  small 
silver  coin  —  his  entire  collection  of  tips,  and  all  the  money 
he  had.  This  he  carried  to  the  Colonel,  with  a  lie  in  his 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  TRUE  SOUTHERN  LADY    129 

mouth  that  the  recording  angel  blotted  out  the  moment  it 
fell  from  his  lips. 

"Here's  some  change,  Marsa  George,  I  forgot  to  gib  ye ; 
been  left  ober  from  de  marketin'." 

And  the  Colonel  gathered  it  all  in,  and  went  out  and 
spent  every  penny  of  it  on  roses  for  "dear  Nancy !" 

All  of  these  things,  as  I  have  said,  had  acted  like  a  tonic 
on  the  Colonel,  bracing  him  up  to  renewed  efforts,  and  re- 
acting on  his  guests,  who  in  return  did  their  best  to  make 
the  breakfast  a  merry  one. 

Fitz,  always  delightful,  was  more  brilliant  than  ever,  his 
native  wit,  expressed  in  a  brogue  with  verbal  shadings  so 
slight  that  it  is  hardly  possible  to  give  it  in  print,  keeping 
the  table  in  a  roar ;  while  Miss  Nancy,  encouraged  by  the 
ease  and  freedom  of  everybody  about  her,  forgot  for  a  time 
her  quiet  reserve,  and  was  charming  in  the  way  she  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  her  own  youthful  experiences. 

And  so  the  talk  went  on  until,  with  a  smile  to  everybody, 
the  little  lady  rose,  called  Chad,  who  stood  ready  with 
shawl  and  cushion,  and,  saying  she  would  retire  to  her 
room  until  the  gentlemen  had  finished  smoking,  disap- 
peared through  the  doorway. 

The  talk  had  evidently  aroused  some  memory  long 
buried  in  the  Colonel's  mind ;  for  when  Fitz  had  gone  the 
dear  old  fellow  picked  up  the  glass  holding  the  roses  which 
he  had  given  his  aunt  in  the  morning,  and,  while  repeating 
her  name  softly  to  himself,  buried  his  face  in  their  frag- 
rance. Something,  perhaps,  in  their  perfume  stirred  that 
haunting  memory  the  deeper,  for  he  suddenly  raised  his 
head  and  burst  out : 

"Ah,  Major,  you  ought  to  have  seen  that  woman  forty 
years  ago!  Why,  suh,  she  was  just  a  rose  herself!" 

And  then  followed  in  disconnected  scraps,  as  if  he  were 
recalling  it  to  himself,  with  long  pauses  between,  that 
story  which  I  had  heard  hinted  at  before.  A  story  never 


130  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

told  the  children,  and  never  even  whispered  in  Aunt 
Nancy's  presence  —  the  one  love  affair  of  her  life. 

She  and  Robert  had  grown  up  together  —  he  a  tall, 
brown-eyed  young  fellow  just  out  of  the  university,  and 
she  a  fair-haired,  joyous  girl  with  half  the  county  at  her 
feet.  Nancy  had  not  loved  him  at  first,  nor  ever  did  until 
the  day  he  had  saved  her  life  in  that  wild  dash  across 
country  when  her  horse  took  fright,  and  he,  riding  neck 
and  neck,  had  lifted  her  clear  of  her  saddle.  After  that 
there  had  been  but  one  pair  of  eyes  and  arms  for  her  in  the 
wide  world.  All  of  that  spring  and  summer,  as  the  Colonel 
put  it,  she  was  like  a  bird  pouring  out  her  soul  in  one  con- 
tinuous song.  Then  there  had  come  a  night  in  Richmond 
• —  the  night  of  the  ball  —  followed  by  her  sudden  return 
home,  hollow-eyed  and  white,  and  the  mysterious  post- 
ponement of  the  wedding  for  a  year. 

Everybody  wondered,  but  no  one  knew,  and  only  as  the 
months  went  by  did  her  spirits  gain  a  little,  and  she  begin 
to  sing  once  more. 

It  was  at  a  great  party  on  a  neighboring  estate,  amid  the 
swim  of  the  music  and  the  whirl  of  soft  lace.  Suddenly 
loud  voices  and  threats,  a  shower  of  cards  flung  at  a  man's 
face,  an  uplifted  arm  caught  by  the  host.  Then  a  hall  door 
thrust  open  and  a  half -frenzied  man  with  disordered  dress 
staggering  out.  Then  the  startled  face  of  a  young  girl  all 
in  white  and  a  cry  no  one  ever  forgot : 

"Oh,  Robert!  Not  again?" 

Her  long  ride  home  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  Nancy  alone 
in  the  coach,  her  escort  —  a  distant  cousin  —  on  horseback 
behind. 

i  Then  the  pursuit.  The  steady  rise  and  fall  of  the  hoof- 
beats  back  in  the  forest ;  the  reining  in  of  Robert's  panting 
horse  covered  with  foam;  his  command  to  halt;  a  flash, 
and  then  that  sweet  face  stretched  out  in  the  road  in  the 
moonlight  by  the  side  of  the  overturned  coach,  the  cousin 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  TRUE  SOUTHERN  LADY    131 

bending  over  her  with  a  bullet-hole  in  his  hat,  and  Robert, 
ghastly  white  and  sobered,  with  the  smoking  pistol  in  his 
hand. 

Then  the  long,  halting  procession  homeward  hi  the  gray 
dawn. 

It  was  not  so  easy  after  this  to  keep  the  secret  shut  away ; 
so  one  day,  when  the  shock  had  passed  —  her  arms  about 
her  uncle's  neck  —  the  whole  story  came  out.  She  told  of 
that  other  night  there  in  Richmond,  with  Robert  reeling 
and  half -crazed;  of  his  promise  of  reform,  and  the  post- 
ponement of  the  wedding,  while  she  waited  and  trusted : 
so  sad  a  story  that  the  old  uncle  forgot  all  the  traditions 
that  bound  Southern  families,  and  sustained  her  in  her  de- 
termination never  to  see  Robert  again. 

For  days  the  broken-hearted  lover  haunted  the  place, 
while  an  out-bound  ship  waited  in  Norfolk  harbor. 

Even  Robert's  father,  crushed  and  humiliated  by  it  all, 
had  made  no  intercession  for  him.  But  now,  he  begged, 
would  she  see  his  son  for  the  last  time,  only  that  he  might 
touch  her  hand  and  say  good-bye  ? 

That  last  good-bye  lasted  an  hour,  Chad  walking  his 
horse  all  the  while  before  the  porch  door,  until  that  tot- 
tering figure,  holding  to  the  railings  and  steadying  itself, 
came  down  the  steps. 

A  shutter  thrown  back,  and  Nancy  at  the  open  window 
watching  him  mount. 

As  he  wheels  he  raises  his  hat.  She  pushes  aside  the 
climbing  roses. 

In  an  instant  he  has  cleared  the  garden-beds,  and  has 
reined  in  his  horse  just  below  her  window-sill.  Looking  up 
into  her  face : 

"Nancy,  for  the  last  time,  shall  I  stay?" 

She  only  shakes  her  head. 

"Then  look,  Nancy,  look !  This  is  your  work !" 

A  gleam  of  steel  in  a  clenched  hand,  a  burst  of  smoke, 


132  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

and  before  Chad  can  reach  him  Nancy's  lover  lies  dead  in 
the  flowers  at  her  feet. 

It  had  not  been  an  easy  story  for  the  Colonel.  When  he 
ceased  he  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  as  if  the  air 
of  the  room  stifled  him.  Then  laying  down  his  pipe,  he 
bent  once  more  over  the  slender  vase,  his  face  in  the  roses. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

In  an  instant  the  Colonel's  old  manner  returned. 

"May  you  come  in,  Nancy?  Why,  you  dear  woman,  if 
you  had  stayed  away  five  minutes  longer  I  should  have 
gone  for  you  myself.  What !  Another  skein  of  yarn  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  seating  herself.  "  Hold  out  your  hands." 

The  loop  slipped  so  easily  over  the  Colonel's  arms  that  it 
was  quite  evident  that  the  r6le  was  not  new  to  him. 

"Befo*  I  forget  it,  Nancy,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  was  called 
suddenly  away  to  attend  to  some  business  connected  with 
my  railroad,  and  left  his  vehy  kindest  regards  for  you,  and 
his  apologies  for  not  seein'  you  befo'  he  left." 

Fitz  had  said  nothing  that  resembled  this,  so  far  as  my 
memory  served  me,  but  it  was  what  he  ought  to  have  done, 
and  the  Colonel  always  corrected  such  little  slips  of  cour- 
tesy by  supplying  them  himself. 

"Politeness,"  he  would  sometimes  say,  "is  becomin* 
rarer  every  day.  I  tell  you,  suh,  the  disease  of  bad  manners 
is  mo*  contagious  than  the  smallpox." 

So  the  deception  was  quite  pardonable  hi  him. 

"And  what  does  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  think  of  the  success  of 
your  enterprise,  George  ?  " 

The  Colonel  sailed  away  as  usual  with  all  his  balloon  top- 
sails set,  his  sea-room  limited  only  by  the  skein,  while  his 
aunt  wound  her  yarn  silently,  and  listened  with  a  face  ex- 
pressive at  once  of  deep  interest  and  hope,  mingled  with  a 
certain  undefined  doubt. 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  TRUE  SOUTHERN  LADY    133 

As  the  ball  grew  in  size,  she  turned  to  me,  and,  with  a 
penetration  and  practical  insight  into  affairs  for  which  I 
had  not  given  her  credit,  began  to  dissect  the  scheme  in 
detail.  She  had  heard,  she  said,  that  there  was  lack  of  con- 
necting lines  and  consequent  absence  of  freight,  as  well  as 
insufficient  harbor  facilities  at  Warrentown. 

I  parried  the  questions  as  well  as  I  could,  begging  off  on 
the  plea  that  I  was  only  a  poor  devil  of  a  painter  with  a 
minimum  knowledge  of  such  matters,  and  ended  by  refer- 
ring her  to  Fitz. 

fc  The  Colonel,  much  to  my  surprise,  listened  to  every 
word  without  opening  his  lips  —  a  silence  encouraged  at 
first  by  his  pride  that  she  could  talk  so  well,  and  main- 
tained thereafter  because  of  certain  misgivings  awakened 
in  his  mind  as  to  the  ultimate  success  of  his  pet  enterprise. 

When  she  had  punctured  the  last  of  his  little  balloons,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and,  looking  into  her  face, 
said: 

"Nancy,  you  really  don't  mean  that  my  railroad  will 
never  be  built  ?  " 

"No,  George;  but  suppose  it  should  not  earn  its  ex- 
penses?" 

Her  thoughts  were  new  to  the  Colonel.  Nobody  except  a 
few  foolish  people  in  the  Street,  anxious  to  sell  less  valuable 
securities,  and  utterly  unable  to  grasp  the  great  merits  of 
the  Cartersville  and  Warrentown  Air  Line  Railroad  plan, 
had  ever  before  advanced  any  such  ideas  in  his  presence. 
He  loosened  his  hands  from  the  yarn,  and  took  a  seat  by 
the  window.  His  aunt's  misgivings  had  evidently  so  thor- 
oughly disturbed  him  that  for  an  instant  I  could  see  traces 
of  a  certain  offended  dignity,  coupled  with  a  nervous  anxi- 
ety lest  her  inquiries  had  shaken  my  own  confidence  in  his 
scheme. 

He  began  at  once  to  reassure  me.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  uneasy  about.  Look  at  the  bonds!  Note  the  perfect 


134  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

safety  of  the  plan  of  finance  —  the  earlier  coupons  omitted, 
the  subsequent  peace  of  the  investor !  The  peculiar  loca- 
tion of  the  road,  with  the  ancestral  estates  dotted  along  its 
line !  The  dignity  of  the  several  stations !  He  could  hear 
them  now  in  his  mind  called  out  as  they  whistled  down 
brakes:  "Carter  Hall!  Barboursville !  Talcott!"  No; 
there  was  nothing  about  the  road  that  should  disturb  his 
aunt.  For  all  that  a  still  more  anxious  look  came  into  his 
face.  He  began  pacing  the  floor,  buried  in  deep  thought, 
his  thumbs  hooked  behind  his  back.  At  last  he  stopped  and 
took  her  hand. 

"Dear  Nancy,  if  anything  should  happen  to  you  it 
would  break  my  heart.  Don't  be  angry,  it  is  only  the 
Major ;  but  yo'  talk  with  him  has  so  disturbed  me  that  I 
am  determined  to  secure  you  against  personal  loss/' 

Miss  Nancy  raised  her  eyes  wonderingly.  She  evidently 
did  not  catch  his  meaning. 

"You  have  been  good  enough,  my  dear,  to  advance  me 
certain  sums  of  money  which  I  still  owe.  I  want  to  pay 
these  now." 

"But,  George,  you— " 

"My  dearest  Nancy"  —  and  he  stooped  down,  and 
kissed  her  cheek  —  "I  will  have  my  way.  Of  co'se  you 
didn't  mean  anything,  only  I  cannot  let  another  hour  pass 
with  these  accounts  unsettled.  Think,  Nancy;  it  is  my 
right.  The  delay  affects  my  honor." 

The  little  lady  dropped  her  knitting  on  the  floor,  and 
looked  at  me  in  a  helpless  way. 

The  Colonel  opened  the  table-drawer,  and  handed  me 
pen  and  ink. 

"Now,  Major,  take  this  sheet  of  paper  and  draw  a  note 
of  hand." 

I  looked  at  his  aunt  inquiringly.  She  nodded  her  head  in 
assent. 

"Yes,  if  it  pleases  George." 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  TRUE  SOUTHERN  LADY    135 

I  began  with  the  usual  form,  entering  the  words  "I 
promise  to  pay,"  and  stopped  for  instructions. 

"Payable  when,  Colonel?"  I  asked. 

"As  soon  as  I  get  the  money,  suh." 

"But  you  will  do  that  anyhow,  George." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Nancy;  but  I  want  to  settle  it  in  some 
safe  way." 

Then  he  gazed  at  the  ceiling  in  deep  thought. 

"I  have  it,  Major!"  And  the  Colonel  seized  the  pen. 
The  note  read  as  follows : 

On  demand  I  promise  to  pay  Ann  Carter  the  sum  of  six  hun- 
dred dollars,  value  received,  with  interest  at  the  rate  of  six  per 
cent  from  January  1st. 

Payable  as  soon  as  possible. 

GEORGE  FAIRFAX  CARTER 

I  looked  to  see  what  effect  this  unexpected  influx  of 
wealth  would  produce  on  the  dear  lady ;  but  the  trustful 
smile  never  wavered. 

She  read  to  the  very  end  the  modest  scrap  of  paper  so 
suddenly  enriched  by  the  Colonel's  signature,  repeated  in  a 
whisper  to  herself  "Payable  as  soon  as  possible,"  folded  it 
with  as  much  care  as  if  it  had  been  a  Bank  of  England  note, 
then  thanked  the  Colonel  graciously,  and  tucked  it  in  her 
reticule. 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD* 
BY  MARY  E.  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

WALPOLE  was  a  lively  little  rural  emporium  of  trade; 
thither  the  villagers  from  the  small  country  hamlets  there- 
abouts went  to  make  the  bulk  of  their  modest  purchases. 

One  summer  afternoon  two  women  were  driving  slowly 
along  a  road  therefrom,  in  a  dusty,  old-fashioned  chaise, 
whose  bottom  was  heaped  up  with  brown-paper  parcels. 

One  woman  might  have  been  seventy,  but  she  looked 
younger,  she  was  so  hale  and  portly.  She  had  a  double, 
bristling  chin,  her  gray  eyes  twinkled  humorously  over  her 
spectacles,  and  she  wore  a  wide-flaring  black  straw  bonnet 
with  purple  bows  on  the  inside  of  the  rim.  The  afternoon 
was  very  warm,  and  she  held  in  one  black-mitted  hand  a 
palmleaf  fan,  which  she  waved  gently,  now  and  then,  over 
against  her  capacious  bosom. 

The  other  woman  was  younger  —  forty,  perhaps;  her 
face  was  plain-featured  and  energetic.  She  wore  a  gray 
serge  dress  and  drab  cotton  gloves,  and  held  tightly  on  to 
the  reins  as  she  drove.  Now  and  then  she  would  slap  them 
briskly  upon  the  horse's  back.  He  was  a  heavy,  hard- 
worked  farm  animal,  and  was  disposed  to  jog  along  at  an 
easy  pace  this  warm  afternoon. 

There  had  not  been  any  rain  for  a  long  time,  and  every- 
thing was  very  dusty.  This  road  was  not  much  traveled, 
and  grass  was  growing  between  the  wheel-ruts;  but  the 
soil  flew  up  like  smoke  from  the  horse's  hoofs  and  the 
wheels.  The  blackberry- vines  climbing  over  the  stone  walls 
on  either  side,  and  the  meadow-sweet  and  hardback  bushes 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  A  Humble  Romance  and  Other  Stories, 
by  Mary  E.  Wilkins.    Copyright,  1887,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD  137 

were  powdered  thickly  with  dust,  and  had  gray  leaves  in- 
stead  of  green.  The  big-leaved  things,  such  as  burdock, 
growing  close  to  the  ground,  had  their  veins  all  outlined  in 
dust. 

The  two  women  rode  in  a  peaceful  sort  of  way ;  the  old 
lady  fanned  herself  mildly,  and  the  younger  one  slapped 
the  horse  mechanically.  Neither  spoke,  till  they  emerged 
into  a  more  open  space  on  a  hill-crest.  There  they  had  an 
uninterrupted  view  of  the  northwest  sky;  the  trees  had 
hidden  it  before. 

"I  declare,  Almiry,"  said  the  old  lady,  "we  air  goin'  to 
hev  a  thunder-shower." 

"It  won't  get  up  till  we  get  home,"  replied  the  other, 
"an*  ten  chances  to  one  it'll  go  round  by  the  north,  any- 
way, and  not  touch  us  at  all.  That's  the  way  they  do  half 
the  time  here.  If  I'd  'a'  seen  a  cloud  as  black  as  that  down 
where  I  used  to  live,  I'd  'a'  known  for  sure  there  was  goin' 
to  be  a  heavy  tempest,  but  here  there's  no  knowin'  any- 
thing about  it.  I  would  n't  worry,  anyway,  Mis'  Green,  if 
it  should  come  up  before  we  get  home;  the  horse  ain't 
afraid  of  lightnin'." 

The  old  lady  looked  comical.  "He  ain't  afraid  of  any- 
thing, is  he,  Almiry?" 

"No,"  answered  her  companion,  giving  the  horse  a  spite- 
ful slap ;  "he  don't  know  enough  to  get  scared  even,  that's 
a  fact.  I  don't  believe  anything  short  of  Gabriel's  trumpet 
would  start  him  up  a  bit." 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  speak  that  way,  Almiry," 
said  the  old  lady ;  "it's  kinder  makin'  light  o'  sacred  things, 
seems  to  me.  But  as  long  as  you've  spoke  of  it,  I  don't  be- 
lieve that  would  start  him  up  either.  Though  I'll  tell  you 
one  thing,  Almiry :  I  don't  believe  thar's  goin'  to  be  any- 
thing very  frightful  'bout  Gabriel's  trumpet.  I  think  it's 
goin'  to  come  kinder  like  the  robins  an'  the  flowers  do  in 
the  spring,  kinder  meltin'  right  into  everything  else,  sweet 
an'  nateral  like." 


138  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

"That  ain't  accordin'  to  Scripture,"  said  Almira,  stoutly. 

"It's  accordin'  to  my  Scripture.  I  tell  you  what  'tis, 
Almiry,  I've  found  out  one  thing  a-livinj  so  long,  an'  that 
is,  thar  ain't  so  much  difference  in  things  on  this  airth  as 
thar  is  in  the  folks  that  see  'em.  It's  me  a-seein'  the  Scrip- 
turs,  an'  it's  you  a-seein'  the  Scripturs,  Almiry,  an'  you  see 
one  thing  an'  I  another,  an'  I  dare  say  we  both  see  crooked 
mostly,  with  maybe  a  little  straight  mixed  up  with  it,  an* 
we'll  never  reely  know  how  much  is  straight  till  we  see  to 
read  it  by  the  light  of  the  New  Jerusalem." 

"You  ought  to  ha'  ben  a  minister,  Mis'  Green." 

"  Wa'al,  so  I  would  ha'  ben  ef  I  had  ben  a  man ;  I  allers 
thought  I  would.  But  I  s'pose  the  Lord  thought  there  was 
more  need  of  an  extra  hand  just  then  to  raise  up  children, 
an'  bake  an*  brew  an'  wash  dishes.  You'd  better  drive 
along  a  leetle  faster  ef  you  kin,  Almiry." 

Almira  jerked  the  reins  viciously  and  clucked,  but  the 
horse  jogged  along  undisturbed.  "It  ain't  no  use,"  said 
she.  "You  might  as  well  try  to  start  up  a  stone  post." 

"Wa'al,  mebbe  the  shower  won't  come  up,"  said  the  old 
lady,  and  she  leaned  back  and  began  peacefully  fanning 
herself. 

"That  cloud  makes  me  think  of  Aunt  Rebecca's  fun- 
eral," she  broke  out,  suddenly.  "Did  I  ever  tell  you  about 
it,  Almiry?" 

"No ;  I  don't  think  you  ever  did,  Mis'  Green." 

"Wa'al,  mebbe  you'll  like  to  hear  it,  as  we're  joggin* 
along.  It'll  keep  us  from  getting  aggervated  at  the  horse, 
poor,  dumb  thing ! 

"Wa'al,  you  see,  Almiry,  Aunt  Rebecca  was  my  aunt  on 
my  mother's  side  —  my  mother's  oldest  sister  she  was  — 
an'  I'd  allers  thought  a  sight  of  her.  This  happened  twenty 
year  ago  or  more,  before  Israel  died.  She  was  allers  such 
an  own-folks  sort  of  a  woman,  an'  jest  the  best  hand  when 
any  one  was  sick.  I'll  never  forgit  how  she  missed  me 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD  139 

through  the  typhus  fever,  the  year  after  mother  died. 
Thar  I  was  took  sick  all  of  a  sudden,  an*  four  leetle  chil- 
dren cryin',  an'  Israel  couldn't  get  anybody  but  that  shift- 
less Lyons  woman,  far  and  near,  to  come  an*  help.  When 
Aunt  Rebecca  heerd  of  it  she  jest  left  everything  an'  come. 
She  packed  off  that  Lyons  woman,  bag  an'  baggage,  an* 
tuk  right  hold,  as  nobody  but  her  could  ha'  known  how  to. 
I  allers  knew  I  should  ha*  died  ef  it  hadn't  been  for  her. 

"She  lived  ten  miles  off,  on  this  very  road,  too,  but  we 
allers  used  to  visit  back  an'  forth.  I  couldn't  get  along 
without  goin'  to  see  Aunt  Rebecca  once  in  so  often;  I'd 
get  jest  as  lonesome  an'  homesick  as  could  be. 

"  So,  feelin'  that  way,  it  ain't  surprisin'  that  it  gave  me 
an  awful  shock  when  I  heerd  she  was  dead  that  mornin*. 
They  sent  the  word  by  a  man  that  they  hailed,  drivin'  by. 
He  was  comin'  down  here  to  see  about  sellin'  a  horse,  an' 
he  said  he'd  jest  as  soon  stop  an'  tell  us  as  not.  A  real  nice 
sort  of  a  man  he  was  —  a  store-keeper  from  Comstock. 
Wa'al,  I  see  Israel  standin'  out  in  the  road  an'  talkin'  with 
the  man,  an'  I  wondered  what  it  could  be  about.  But  when 
he  came  in  an'  told  me  that  Aunt  Rebecca  was  dead,  I  jest 
sat  right  down,  kinder  stunned  like.  I  couldn't  ha'  felt 
much  worse  ef  it  had  been  my  mother.  An'  it  was  so  awful 
sudden !  Why,  I'd  seen  her  only  the  week  before,  an'  she 
looked  uncommon  smart  for  her,  I  thought.  Ef  it  had  been 
Uncle  Enos,  her  husband,  I  shouldn't  ha'  wondered.  He'd 
had  the  heart-disease  for  years,  an'  we'd  thought  he  might 
die  any  minute ;  but  to  think  of  her  — 

"  I  jest  stared  at  Israel.  I  felt  too  bad  to  cry.  I  didn't, 
till  I  happened  to  look  down  at  the  apron  I  had  on.  It  was 
like  a  dress  she  had ;  she  had  a  piece  left,  an'  she  gave  it  to 
me  for  an  apron.  When  I  saw  that,  I  bust  right  out  sobbin*. 

"*O  Lord,'  says  I,  'this  apron  she  give  me!  Oh,  dear! 
dear!  dear!' 

"'Sarah/  says  Israel,  'it's  the  will  of  the  Lord.' 


140  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

"'I  know  it,'  says  I,  'but  she's  dead,  an'  she  gave  me  this 
apron,  dear  blessed  woman ' ;  an'  I  went  right  on  cryin', 
though  he  tried  to  stop  me.  Every  time  I  looked  at  that 
apron,  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  die. 

"Thar  wa'n't  any  particulars,  Israel  said.  All  the  man 
that  told  him  knew  was  that  a  woman  hailed  him  from  one 
of  the  front  windows  as  he  was  drivin'  by,  and  asked  him 
to  stop  an'  tell  us.  I  s'posed  most  likely  the  woman  that 
hailed  him  was  Mis'  Simmons,  a  widder  woman  that  used 
to  work  for  Aunt  Rebecca  busy  times. 

"Wa'al,  Israel  kinder  hurried  me  to  get  ready.  The 
funeral  was  app'inted  at  two  o'clock,  an'  we  had  a  horse 
that  wa'n't  much  swifter  on  the  road  than  the  one  you're 
drivin'  now. 

"So  I  got  into  my  best  black  gown  the  quickest  I  could. 
I  had  a  good  black  shawl,  and  a  black  bunnit  too ;  so  I 
looked  quite  decent.  I  felt  reel  glad  I  had  'em.  They  were 
things  I  had  when  mother  died.  I  don't  see  hardly  how  I 
had  happened  to  keep  the  bunnit,  but  it  was  lucky  I  did. 
I  got  ready  in  such  a  flutter  that  I  got  on  my  black  gown 
over  the  caliker  one  I'd  been  wearin',  an'  never  knew  it  till 
I  came  to  go  to  bed  that  night,  but  I  don't  think  it  was 
much  wonder. 

"We'd  been  havin*  a  terrible  dry  spell,  jest  as  we've  been 
havin'  now,  an'  everything  was  like  powder.  I  thought  my 
dress  would  be  spoilt  before  we  got  thar.  The  horse  was 
dreadful  lazy,  an'  it  was  nothin'  but  g'langin'  an'  slappin' 
an'  whippin*  all  the  way,  an'  it  didn't  amount  to  nothin' 
then. 

"When  we'd  got  halfway  thar  or  so,  thar  come  up  an 
awful  thunder-shower  from  the  northwest,  jest  as  it's  doin' 
to-day.  Wa'al,  thar  wa'n't  nowhar  to  stop,  an'  we  driv 
right  along.  The  horse  wa'n't  afraid  of  lightnin',  an'  we 
got  in  under  the  shay  top  as  far  as  we  could,  an'  pulled  the 
blanket  up  over  us ;  but  we  got  drippin'  wet.  An'  thar  was 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD  141 

Israel  in  his  meetin'  coat,  an*  me  in  my  best  gown.  Take 
it  with  the  dust  an*  everything,  they  never  looked  anyhow 
again. 

"Wa'al,  Israel  g'langed  to  the  horse,  an*  put  the  whip 
over  her,  but  she  jest  jogged  right  along.  What  with  feelin* 
so  about  Aunt  Rebecca,  an*  worryin'  about  Israel's  coat  an' 
my  best  gown,  I  thought  I  should  never  live  to  git  thar. 

"When  we  driv  by  the  meetin'-house  at  Four  Corners, 
where  Aunt  Rebecca  lived,  it  was  five  minutes  after  two, 
an*  two  was  the  time  sot  for  the  funeral.  I  did  feel  reel 
worked  up  to  think  we  was  late,  an'  we  chief  mourners. 
When  we  got  to  the  house  thar  seemed  to  be  consider'ble 
goin'  on  around  it,  folks  goin'  in  an'  out,  an'  standin'  in 
the  yard,  an'  Israel  said  he  didn't  believe  we  was  late,  after 
all.  He  hollered  to  a  man  standin'  by  the  fence,  an'  asked 
him  if  they  had  had  the  funeral.  The  man  said  no ;  they 
was  goin'  to  hev  it  at  the  meetin'-house  at  three  o'clock. 
We  was  glad  enough  to  hear  that,  an'  Israel  said  he  would 
drive  round  an'  hitch  the  horse,  an'  I'd  better  go  in  an'  get 
dried  off  a  little,  an'  see  the  folks. 

"  It  had  slacked  up  then,  an'  was  only  drizzlin*  a  leetle, 
an'  lightnin'  a  good  ways  off  now  an'  then. 

"Wa'al,  I  got  out,  an'  went  up  to  the  house.  Thar  was 
quite  a  lot  of  men  I  knew  standin'  round  the  door  an'  in  the 
entry,  but  they  only  bowed  kinder  stiff  an'  solemn,  an* 
moved  to  let  me  pass.  I  noticed  the  entry  floor  was  drip- 
pin'  wet  too.  'Been  rainin'  in,'  thinks  I.  'I  wonder  why 
they  didn't  shet  the  door.'  I  went  right  into  the  room  on 
the  left-hand  side  of  the  entry  —  that  was  the  settin'- 
room  —  an'  thar,  a-settin'  in  a  cheer  by  the  winder,  jest  as 
straight  an'  smart  as  could  be,  in  her  new  black  bunnit  an' 
gown,  was  —  Aunt  Rebecca. 

"Wa'al,  ef  I  was  to  tell  you  what  I  did,  Almiry,  I  s'pose 
you'd  think  it  was  awful.  But  I  s'pose  the  sudden  change 
from  feelin'  so  bad  made  me  kinder  highstericky.  I  jest  sot 


142  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

right  down  in  the  first  cheer  I  come  to  an'  laughed;  I 
laughed  till  the  tears  was  runnin'  down  my  cheeks,  an'  it 
was  all  I  could  do  to  breathe.  There  was  quite  a  lot  of 
Uncle  Enos's  folks  settin'  round  the  room  —  his  brother's 
family  an'  some  cousins  —  an'  they  looked  at  me  as  ef  they 
thought  I  was  crazy.  But  seein'  them  look  only  sot  me  off 
again.  Some  of  the  folks  came  in  from  the  entry,  an'  stood 
starin'  at  me,  but  I  jest  laughed  harder.  Finally  Aunt 
Rebecca  comes  up  to  me. 

"  'For  mercy's  sake,  Sarah,'  says  she,  'what  air  you  doin' 
so  for?' 

f"Oh,  dear !'  says  I.  *I  thought  you  was  dead,  an'  thar 
you  was  a-settin'.  Oh,  dear !' 

"And  then  I  begun  to  laugh  again.  I  was  awful  'shamed 
of  myself,  but  I  couldn't  stop  to  save  my  life. 

"'For  the  land's  sake,  Aunt  Rebecca,'  says  I,  'is  thar  a 
funeral  or  a  weddin'  ?  An'  ef  thar  is  a  funeral,  who's  dead  ? ' 

'"Come  into  the  bedroom  with  me  a  minute,  Sarah,' 
says  she. 

"Then  we  went  into  her  bedroom,  that  opened  out  of 
the  settin'-room,  an'  sot  down,  an'  she  told  me  that  it  was 
Uncle  Enos  that  was  dead.  It  seems  she  was  the  one  that 
hailed  the  man,  an'  he  was  a  little  hard  of  hearin',  an'  thar 
was  a  misunderstandin'  between  'em  some  way. 

"Uncle  Enos  had  died  very  sudden,  the  day  before,  of 
heart-disease.  He  went  into  the  settin'-room  after  break- 
fast, an'  sot  down  by  the  winder,  an'  Aunt  Rebecca  found 
him  thar  dead  in  his  cheer  when  she  went  in  a  few  minutes 
afterwards. 

"  It  was  such  awful  hot  weather  they  had  to  hurry  about 
the  funeral.  But  that  wa'n't  all.  Then  she  went  on  to  tell 
me  the  rest.  They  had  had  the  awfulest  time  that  ever 
was.  The  shower  had  come  up  about  one  o'clock,  and  the 
barn  had  been  struck  by  lightnin'.  It  was  a  big  new  one 
that  Uncle  Enos  had  sot  great  store  by.  He  had  laid  out 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD  143 

considerable  money  on  it,  an'  they'd  jest  got  in  twelve  ton 
of  hay.  I  s'pose  that  was  how  it  happened  to  be  struck.  A 
barn  is  a  good  deal  more  likely  to  be  when  they've  jest  got 
hay  in.  Well,  everybody  sot  to  an'  put  the  fire  in  the  barn 
out.  They  handed  buckets  of  water  up  to  the  men  on  the 
roof,  an'  put  that  out  without  much  trouble  by  takin'  it  in 
time. 

"But  after  they'd  got  that  put  out  they  found  the  house 
was  on  fire.  The  same  thunderbolt  that  struck  the  barn 
had  struck  that  too,  an'  it  was  blazin'  away  at  one  end  of 
the  roof  pretty  lively 

"Wa'al,  they  went  to  work  at  that  then,  an'  they'd  jest 
got  that  fairly  put  out  a  few  minutes  before  we  come. 
Nothin'  was  hurt  much,  only  thar  was  a  good  deal  of  water 
round :  we  had  hard  work  next  day  cleanin'  of  it  up. 

"Aunt  Rebecca  allers  was  a  calm  sort  of  woman,  an'  she 
didn't  seem  near  as  much  flustered  by  it  all  as  most  folks 
would  have  been. 

"I  couldn't  help  wonderin',  an'  lookin'  at  her  pretty 
sharp  to  see  how  she  took  Uncle  Enos's  death,  too.  You 
see,  thar  was  something  kinder  curious  about  their  gittin' 
married.  I'd  heerd  about  it  all  from  mother.  I  don't  s'pose 
she  ever  wanted  him,  nor  cared  about  him  the  best  she 
could  do,  any  more  than  she  would  have  about  any  good, 
respectable  man  that  was  her  neighbor.  Uncle  Enos  was  a 
pretty  good  sort  of  a  man,  though  he  was  allers  dreadful 
sot  in  his  ways,  an'  I  believe  it  would  have  been  wuss  than 
death,  any  time,  for  him  to  have  given  up  anything  he  had 
determined  to  hev.  But  I  must  say  I  never  thought  so 
much  of  him  after  mother  told  me  what  she  did.  You  see, 
the  way  of  it  was,  my  grandmother  Wilson,  Aunt  Rebecca's 
mother,  was  awful  sot  on  her  hevin'  him,  an'  she  was  dread- 
ful nervous  an'  feeble,  an'  Aunt  Rebecca  jest  give  in  to  her. 
The  wust  of  it  was,  thar  was  some  one  else  she  wanted  too, 
an'  he  wanted  her.  Abner  Lyons  his  name  was ;  he  wa'n't 


144  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

any  relation  to  the  Lyons  woman  I  had  when  I  was  sick. 
He  was  a  real  likely  young  feller,  an*  thar  wa'n't  a  thing 
ag'in*  him  that  any  one  else  could  see;  but  grandmother 
fairly  hated  him,  an*  mother  said  she  did  believe  her 
mother  would  rather  hev  buried  Rebecca  than  seen  her 
married  to  him.  Well,  grandmother  took  on,  an*  acted  so, 
that  Aunt  Rebecca  give  in  an*  said  she'd  marry  Uncle 
Enos,  an*  the  weddin'-day  come. 

"Mother  said  she  looked  handsome  as  a  pictur',  but  thar 
was  somethin*  kinder  awful  about  her  when  she  stood  up 
before  the  minister  with  Uncle  Enos  to  be  married. 

"She  was  dressed  in  green  silk,  an*  had  some  roses  in  her 
hair.  I  kin  imagine  jest  how  she  must  hev  looked.  She  was 
a  good-lookin'  woman  when  I  knew  her,  an'  they  said  when 
she  was  young  there  wa'n't  many  to  compare  with  her. 

"Mother  said  Uncle  Enos  looked  nice,  but  he  had  his 
mouth  kinder  hard  sot,  as  ef  now  he'd  got  what  he  wanted, 
an*  meant  to  hang  on  to  it.  He'd  known  all  the  time  jest 
how  matters  was.  Aunt  Rebecca'd  told  him  the  whole 
story ;  she  declared  she  wouldn't  marry  him,  without  she 
did. 

"I  s'pose,  at  the  last  minute,  that  Aunt  Rebecca  got 
kinder  desp'rate,  an'  a  realizin'  sense  of  what  she  was  doin' 
come  over  her,  an'  she  thought  she'd  make  one  more  effort 
to  escape ;  for  when  the  minister  asked  that  question  'bout 
thar  bein'  any  obstacles  to  their  gittin'  married,  an'  ef  thar 
were,  let  'em  speak  up,  or  forever  hold  their  peace,  Aunt 
Rebecca  did  speak  up.  Mother  said  she  looked  straight  at 
the  parson,  an'  her  eyes  was  shinin'  and  her  cheeks  white  as 
lilies. 

"'Yes,'  says  she,  'tha-r  is  an  obstacle,  an'  I  will  speak, 
an'  then  I  will  forever  hold  my  peace.  I  don't  love  this  man 
I'm  standin'  beside  of,  an'  I  love  another  man.  Now  ef 
Enos  Fairweather  wants  me  after  what  I've  said,  I've 
promised  to  marry  him,  an'  you  kin  go  on ;  but  I  won't  tell 
or  act  a  lie  before  God  an'  man.' 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD  14* 

"Mother  said  it  was  awful.  You  could  hev  heerd  a  pin, 
drop  anywheres  in  the  room.  The  minister  jest  stopped 
short  an*  looked  at  Uncle  Enos,  an*  Uncle  Enos  nodded  his 
head  for  him  to  go  on. 

"But  then  the  minister  begun  to  hev  doubts  as  to 
whether  or  no  he  ought  to  marry  'em  after  what  Aunt 
Rebecca  had  said,  an'  it  seemed  for  a  minute  as  ef  thar 
wouldn't  be  any  weddin'  at  all. 

"But  grandmother  begun  to  cry,  an'  take  on,  an*  Aunt 
Rebecca  jest  turned  round  an'  looked  at  her.  'Go  on,'  says 
she  to  the  minister. 

"Mother  said  ef  thar  was  ever  anybody  looked  fit  to  be 
a  martyr,  Aunt  Rebecca  did  then.  But  it  never  seemed  to 
me  't  was  right.  Marryin'  to  please  your  relations  an'  dyin' 
to  please  the  Lord  is  two  things. 

"Wa'al,  I  never  thought  much  of  Uncle  Enos  after  I 
heerd  that  story,  though,  as  I  said  before,  I  guess  he  was  a 
pretty  good  sort  of  a  man.  The  principal  thing  that  was 
bad  about  him,  I  guess,  was,  he  was  bound  to  hev  Aunt 
Rebecca,  an'  he  didn't  let  anything,  even  proper  self- 
respect,  stand  in  his  way. 

"Aunt  Rebecca  allers  did  her  duty  by  him,  an'  was  a 
good  wife  an'  good  housekeeper.  They  never  had  any  chil- 
dren. But  I  don't  s'pose  she  was  ever  really  happy  or  con- 
tented, an*  I  don't  see  how  she  could  hev  respected  Uncle 
Enos,  scursly,  for  my  part,  but  you'd  never  hev  known  but 
what  she  did. 

"So  I  looked  at  her  pretty  sharp,  as  we  sot  thar  in  her 
little  bedroom  that  opened  out  of  the  settin'-room ;  thar 
was  jest  room  for  one  cheer  beside  the  bed,  an'  I  sot  on  the 
bed.  It  seemed  rather  awful,  with  him  a-layin'  dead  in  the 
best  room,  but  I  couldn't  help  wonderin'  ef  she  wouldn't 
marry  Abner  Lyons  now.  He'd  never  got  married,  but 
lived,  all  by  himself,  jest  at  the  rise  of  the  hill  from  where 
Aunt  Rebecca  lived.  He'd  never  had  a  housekeeper,  but 


146  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

jest  shifted  for  himself,  an*  folks  said  his  house  was  as  neat 
as  wax,  an*  he  could  cook  an*  wash  dishes  as  handy  as  a 
woman.  He  used  to  hev  his  washin'  out  on  the  line  by 
seven  o'clock  of  a  Monday  mornin',  anyhow ;  that  I  know, 
for  I've  seen  it  myself;  an'  the  clothes  looked  white  as 
snow.  I  shouldn't  hev  been  ashamed  of  'em  myself. 

"Aunt  Rebecca  looked  very  calm,  an'  I  don't  think  she'd 
ben  cryin'.  But  then  that  wa'n't  nothin'  to  go  by ;  'twa'n't 
her  way.  I  don't  believe  she'd  'a*  cried  ef  it  had  been  Abner 
Lyons.  Though  I  don't  know,  maybe,  ef  she'd  married  the 
man  she'd  wanted,  she'd  cried  easier.  For  all  Aunt  Rebecca 
was  so  kind  an'  sympathizin'  to  other  folks,  she'd  always 
seemed  like  a  stone  'bout  her  own  troubles.  I  don't 
s'pose,  ef  the  barn  an'  house  had  both  burned  down,  an* 
left  her  without  a  roof  over  her  head,  she'd  'a'  seemed  any 
different.  I  kin  see  her  now,  jest  as  she  looked,  settin'  thar, 
tellin'  me  the  story  that  would  hev  flustrated  any  other 
woman  'most  to  death.  But  her  voice  was  jest  as  low  an' 
even,  an'  never  shook.  Her  hair  was  gray,  but  it  was 
kinder  crinkly,  an'  her  forehead  was  as  white  an'  smooth 
as  a  young  girl's. 

"Aunt  Rebecca's  troubles  always  stayed  in  her  heart,  I 
s'pose,  an*  never  pricked  through.  Except  for  her  gray 
hair,  she  never  looked  as  ef  she'd  had  one. 

"She  never  took  on  any  more  when  she  went  to  the 
funeral,  for  they  buried  him  at  last,  poor  man.  He  had 
'most  as  hard  a  time  gittin*  buried  as  he  did  gittin'  mar- 
ried. I  couldn't  help  peekin'  round  to  see  ef  Abner  Lyons 
was  thar,  an'  he  was,  on  the  other  side  of  the  aisle  from  me. 
An'  he  was  lookin'  straight  at  Uncle  Enos's  coffin,  that 
stood  up  in  front  under  the  pulpit,  with  the  curiousest  ex- 
pression that  I  ever  did  see. 

"He  didn't  look  glad  reely.  I  couldn't  say  he  did,  but  all 
I  could  think  of  was  a  man  who'd  been  runnin'  an'  runnin* 
to  get  to  a  place,  an'  at  length  had  got  in  sight  of  it. 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD  147 

"Maybe  'twas  dreadful  for  him  to  go  to  a  man's  funeral 
an'  look  that  way,  but  natur'  is  natur',  an'  I  always  felt' 
somehow  that  ef  Uncle  Enos  chose  to  do  as  he  did  'twa'n't 
anythin'  more  than  he  ought  to  hev  expected  when  he  was 
dead. 

"But  I  did  feel  awful  ashamed  an'  wicked,  thinkin'  of 
such  things,  with  the  poor  man  layin'  dead  before  me.  An* 
when  I  went  up  to  look  at  him,  layin'  thar  so  helpless,  I 
cried  like  a  baby.  Poor  Uncle  Enos !  It  ain't  for  us  to  be 
down  on  folks  after  everything's  all  over. 

"Well,  Aunt  Rebecca  married  Abner  Lyons  'bout  two 
years  after  Uncle  Enos  died,  an'  they  lived  together  jest 
five  years  an'  seven  months ;  then  she  was  took  sudden 
with  cholera-morbus  from  eatin'  currants,  an'  died.  He 
lived  a  year  an*  a  half  or  so  longer,  an'  then  he  died  in  a 
kind  of  consumption. 

"'Twa'n't  long  they  had  to  be  happy  together,  an'  some- 
times I  used  to  think  they  wa'n't  so  happy  after  all ;  for 
thar's  no  mistake  about  it,  Abner  Lyons  was  awful  fussy. 
I  s'pose  his  livin'  alone  so  long  made  him  so ;  but  I  don't 
believe  Aunt  Rebecca  ever  made  a  loaf  of  bread,  after  she 
was  married,  without  his  havin'  something  to  say  about  it ; 
an'  ef  thar's  anything  that's  aggervatin'  to  a  woman,  it's 
havin'  a  man  fussin'  around  in  her  kitchen. 

"But  ef  Aunt  Rebecca  didn't  find  anything  just  as  she 
thought  it  was  goin'  to  be,  she  never  let  on  she  was  disap- 
p'inted. 

"I  declare,  Almiry,  thar's  the  house  in  sight,  an*  the 
shower  has  gone  round  to  the  northeast,  an'  we  ain't  had  a 
speck  of  rain  to  lay  the  dust. 

"  Well,  my  story's  gone  round  to  the  northeast  too.  Ain't 
you  tired  out  hearin'  me  talk,  Almiry  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  Mis'  Green,"  replied  Almira,  slapping 
the  reins;  "I  liked  to  hear  you,  only  it's  kind  of  come 
to  me,  as  I've  been  listening,  that  I  had  heard  it  before. 


148  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

The  last  time  I  took  you  to  Walpole,  I  guess,  you  told 

it." 

"  Wa'al,  I  declare,  I  shouldn't  wonder  ef  I  did." 

Then  the  horse  turned  cautiously  around  the  corner,  and 

stopped  willingly  before  the  house. 


AT  THE  'CADIAN  BALL1 

BY  KATE  CHOPIN 

BOBIN6T,  that  big,  brown,  good-natured  Bobinot,  had  no 
intention  of  going  to  the  ball,  even  though  he  knew  Calixta 
would  be  there.  For  what  came  of  those  balls  but  heart- 
ache, and  a  sickening  disinclination  for  work  the  whole 
week  through,  till  Saturday  night  came  again  and  his 
tortures  began  afresh  ?  Why  could  he  not  love  Ozeina,  who 
would  marry  him  to-morrow ;  or  Fronie,  or  any  one  of  a 
dozen  others,  rather  than  that  little  Spanish  vixen?  Ca- 
lixta's  slender  foot  had  never  touched  Cuban  soil ;  but  her 
mother's  had,  and  the  Spanish  was  in  her  blood  all  the 
same.  For  that  reason  the  prairie  people  forgave  her  much 
that  they  would  not  have  overlooked  in  their  own  daugh- 
ters or  sisters. 

Her  eyes  —  Bobinot  thought  of  her  eyes,  and  weakened 
—  the  bluest,  the  drowsiest,  most  tantalizing  that  ever 
looked  into  a  man's;  he  thought  of  her  flaxen  hair  that 
kinked  worse  than  a  mulatto's  close  to  her  head;  that 
broad,  smiling  mouth  and  tip-tilted  nose,  that  full  figure ; 
that  voice  like  a  rich  contralto  song,  with  cadences  in  it 
that  must  have  been  taught  by  Satan,  for  there  was  no  one 
else  to  teach  her  tricks  on  that  'Cadian  prairie.  Bobinot 
thought  of  them  all  as  he  ploughed  his  rows  of  cane. 

There  had  even  been  a  breath  of  scandal  whispered  about 
her  a  year  ago,  when  she  went  to  Assumption  —  but  why 
talk  of  it  ?  No  one  did  now.  "  C'est  Espagnol,  fa,"  most  of 
them  said  with  lenient  shoulder-shrugs.  "Bon  chien  tient 
de  race"  the  old  men  mumbled  over  their  pipes,  stirred  by 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Bayou  Folk,  by  Elate  Chopin.  Copy- 
right by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


150  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

recollections.  Nothing  was  made  of  it,  except  that  Fronie 
threw  it  up  to  Calixta  when  the  two  quarreled  and  fought 
on  the  church  steps  after  mass  one  Sunday,  about  a  lover. 
Calixta  swore  roundly  in  fine  'Cadian  French  and  with 
true  Spanish  spirit,  and  slapped  Fronie 's  face.  Fronie  had 
slapped  her  back ;  "  Tiens,  bocotte,  va! "  "Espdce  de  lionise; 
prends  fa,  et  fa!"  till  the  cure  himself  was  obliged  to  hasten 
and  make  peace  between  them.  Bobinot  thought  of  it  all, 
and  would  not  go  to  the  ball. 

But  in  the  afternoon,  over  at  Friedheimer's  store,  where 
he  was  buying  a  trace-chain,  he  heard  some  one  say  that 
Alcee  Laballiere  would  be  there.  Then  wild  horses  could 
not  have  kept  him  away.  He  knew  how  it  would  be  —  or 
rather  he  did  not  know  how  it  would  be  —  if  the  handsome 
young  planter  came  over  to  the  ball  as  he  sometimes  did. 
If  Alc£e  happened  to  be  in  a  serious  mood,  he  might  only 
go  to  the  card-room  and  play  a  round  or  two ;  or  he  might 
stand  out  on  the  galleries  talking  crops  and  politics  with 
the  old  people.  But  there  was  no  telling.  A  drink  or  two 
could  put  the  devil  in  his  head  —  that  was  what  Bobinot 
said  to  himself,  as  he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with 
his  red  bandanna ;  a  gleam  from  Calixta's  eyes,  a  flash  of 
her  ankle,  a  twirl  of  her  skirts  could  do  the  same.  Yes, 

Bobinot  would  go  to  the  ball. 
•        •••••••••• 

That  was  the  year  Alcee  Laballiere  put  nine  hundred 
acres  in  rice.  It  was  putting  a  good  deal  of  money  into  the 
ground,  but  the  returns  promised  to  be  glorious.  Old 
Madame  Laballiere,  sailing  about  the  spacious  galleries  in 
her  white  volante,  figured  it  all  out  in  her  head.  Clarisse, 
her  god-daughter,  helped  her  a  little,  and  together  they 
built  more  air-castles  than  enough.  Ale£e  worked  like  a 
mule  that  time ;  and  if  he  did  not  kill  himself,  it  was  be- 
cause his  constitution  was  an  iron  one.  It  was  an  everyday 
affair  for  him  to  come  in  from  the  field  well-nigh  exhausted, 


AT  THE  'CADIAN  BALL  151 

and  wet  to  the  waist.  He  did  not  mind  if  there  were  visi- 
tors; he  left  them  to  his  mother  and  Clarisse.  There  were 
often  guests :  young  men  and  women  who  came  up  from  the 
city,  which  was  but  a  few  hours  away,  to  visit  his  beautiful 
kinswoman.  She  was  worth  going  a  good  deal  farther  than 
that  to  see.  Dainty  as  a  lily ;  hardy  as  a  sunflower ;  slim, 
tall,  graceful  like  one  of  the  reeds  that  grew  in  the  marsh. 
Cold  and  kind  and  cruel  by  turn,  and  everything  that  was 
aggravating  to  Alcee. 

He  would  have  liked  to  sweep  the  place  of  those  visitors, 
often.  Of  the  men,  above  all,  with  their  ways  and  their 
manners ;  their  swaying  of  fans  like  women,  and  dandling 
about  hammocks.  He  could  have  pitched  them  over  the 
levee  into  the  river,  if  it  hadn't  meant  murder.  That  was 
Alcee.  But  he  must  have  been  crazy  the  day  he  came  in 
from  the  rice-field,  and,  toil-stained  as  he  was,  clasped 
Clarisse  by  the  arms  and  panted  a  volley  of  hot,  blistering 
love-words  into  her  face.  No  man  had  ever  spoken  love  to 
her  like  that. 

"Monsieur ! "  she  exclaimed,  looking  him  full  in  the  eyes, 
without  a  quiver. 

Alcee's  hands  dropped  and  his  glance  wavered  before  the 
chill  of  her  calm,  clear  eyes. 

"Par  exemple!"  she  muttered  disdainfully,  as  she 
turned  from  him,  deftly  adjusting  the  careful  toilet  that  he 
had  so  brutally  disarranged. 

That  happened  a  day  or  two  before  the  cyclone  came 
that  cut  into  the  rice  like  fine  steel.  It  was  an  awful  thing, 
coming  so  swiftly,  without  a  moment's  warning  in  which  to 
light  a  holy  candle  or  set  a  piece  of  blessed  palm  burning. 
Old  madame  wept  openly  and  said  her  beads,  just  as  her 
son  Didier,  the  New  Orleans  one,  would  have  done.  If  such 
a  thing  had  happened  to  Alphonse,  the  Laballiere  planting 
cotton  up  in  Natchitoches,  he  would  have  raved  and 
stormed  like  a  second  cyclone,  and  made  his  surroundings 


152  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS. 

unbearable  for  a  day  or  two.  But  Ale£e  took  the  mis- 
fortune  differently.  He  looked  ill  and  gray  after  it,  and 
said  nothing.  His  speechlessness  was  frightful.  Clarisse 's 
heart  melted  with  tenderness ;  but  when  she  offered  her  soft, 
purring  words  of  condolence,  he  accepted  them  with  mute 
indifference.  Then  she  and  her  nenaine  wept  afresh  in  each 
other's  arms. 

A  night  or  two  later,  when  Clarisse  went  to  her  window 
to  kneel  there  in  the  moonlight  and  say  her  prayers  before 
retiring,  she  saw  that  Bruce,  Alcee's  negro  servant,  had  led 
his  master's  saddle-horse  noiselessly  along  the  edge  of  the 
sward  that  bordered  the  gravel-path,  and  stood  holding 
him  near  by.  Presently,  she  heard  Alcee  quit  his  room, 
which  was  beneath  her  own,  and  traverse  the  lower  portico. 
As  he  emerged  from  the  shadow  and  crossed  the  strip  of 
moonlight,  she  perceived  that  he  carried  a  pair  of  well-filled 
saddle-bags  which  he  at  once  flung  across  the  animal's 
back.  He  then  lost  no  time  in  mounting,  and  after  a  brief 
exchange  of  words  with  Bruce,  went  cantering  away,  tak- 
ing no  precaution  to  avoid  the  noisy  gravel  as  the  negro  had 
done. 

Clarisse  had  never  suspected  that  it  might  be  Alcee's 
custom  to  sally  forth  from  the  plantation  secretly,  and  at 
such  an  hour ;  for  it  was  nearly  midnight.  And  had  it  not 
been  for  the  telltale  saddle-bags,  she  would  only  have  crept 
to  bed,  to  wonder,  to  fret  and  dream  unpleasant  dreams. 
But  her  impatience  and  anxiety  would  not  be  held  in  check. 
Hastily  unbolting  the  shutters  of  her  door  that  opened 
upon  the  gallery,  she  stepped  outside  and  called  softly  to 
the  old  negro. 

"Gre't  Peter !  Miss  Clarisse !  I  wasn'  sho  it  was  a  ghos* 
o'  w'at,  stan'in'  up  dah,  plumb  in  de  night,  dataway." 

He  mounted  halfway  up  the  long,  broad  flight  of  stairs. 
She  was  standing  at  the  top. 

"Bruce,  w'ere  has  Monsieur  Alc£e  gone?"  she  asked. 


AT  THE  'CADIAN  BALL  153 

"  W'y,  he  gone  'bout  he  business,  I  reckin,"  replied  Bruce, 
striving  to  be  noncommittal  at  the  outset. 

"Were  has  Monsieur  Alcee  gone?"  she  reiterated, 
stamping  her  bare  foot.  "I  won't ,stan'  any  nonsense  or 
any  lies ;  mine,  Bruce." 

"I  don*  ric'lic  ez  I  eva  tole  you  lie  yit,  Miss  Clarisse. 
Mista  Alcee,  he  all  broke  up,  sho." 

"Were  —  has  —  he  gone?  Ah,  Sainte  Vierge!  Faut  de 
la  patience!  Butor,  va!" 

"Wen  I  was  in  he  room,  a-breshin'  off  he  clo'es  to-day," 
the  darkey  began,  settling  himself  against  the  stair-rail,  "he 
look  dat  speechless  an*  down,  I  say,  'You  'pear  tu  me  like 
some  pussun  w'at  gwine  have  a  spell  o'  sickness,  Mista 
Alcee.'  He  say,  'You  reckin?'  T  dat  he  git  up,  go  look 
hisse'f  stiddy  in  de  glass.  Den  he  go  to  de  chimbly  an'  jerk 
up  de  quinine  bottle  an'  po'  a  gre't  hoss-dose  on  to  he  han'. 
An'  he  swalla  dat  mess  in  a  wink,  an'  wash  hit  down  wid  a 
big  dram  o'  w'iskey  w'at  he  keep  in  he  room,  ag'inst  he 
come  all  soppin'  wet  outen  de  fieP. 

"He  'lows,  'No,  I  ain'  gwine  be  sick,  Bruce.'  Den  he 
square  off.  He  say,  'I  kin  mak'  out  to  stan'  up  an'  gi*  an* 
take  wid  any  man  I  knows,  lessen  hit's  John  L.  Sulvun. 
But  w'en  God  A'mighty  an'  a  'oman  jines  fo'ces  ag'in'  me, 
dat's  one  too  many  fur  me.'  I  tell  'im,  '  Jis  so,'  whils'  I'se 
makin'  out  tobresh  a  spot  off  w'at  ain'  dah,  on  he  coat  colla. 
I  tell  'im,  'You  wants  li'le  res',  suh.'  He  say,  'No,  I  wants 
li'le  fling ;  dat  w'at  I  wants ;  an'  I  gwine  git  it.  Pitch  me  a 
fis'ful  o'  clo'es  in  dem  'ar  saddle-bags.'  Dat  w'at  he  say. 
Don't  you  bodda,  missy.  He  jis'  gone  a-caperin'  yonda  to 
de  'Cajun  ball.  Uh  —  uh  —  de  skeeters  is  fair  a-swarmin* 
like  bees  roun'  yo'  foots  !" 

The  mosquitoes  were  indeed  attacking  Clarisse's  white 
feet  savagely.  She  had  unconsciously  been  alternately 
rubbing  one  foot  over  the  other  during  the  darkey's  recital. 

"The   'Cadian   ball,"   she   repeated   contemptuously. 


154  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

"Humph !  Par  exemple!  Nice  conduc'  for  a  Laballiere. 
An'  he  needs  a  saddle-bag,  fill'  with  clothes,  to  go  to  the 
'Cadianball!" 

"Oh,  Miss  Clarisse ;  you  go  on  to  bed,  chile ;  git  yo'  soun' 
sleep.  He  'low  he  come  back  in  couple  weeks  o'  so.  I  kiarn 
be  repeatin'  lot  o'  truck  w'at  young  mans  say,  out  heah  face 
o*  a  young  gal." 

Clarisse  said  no  more,  but  turned  and  abruptly  reentered 
the  house. 

"  You  done  talk  too  much  wid  yo'  motif  a'ready,  you  ole 
fool  nigga,  you,"  muttered  Bruce  to  himself  as  he  walked 

away. 

•        ••••••••• 

Alc6e  reached  the  ball  very  late,  of  course  —  too  late  for 
the  chicken  gumbo  which  had  been  served  at  midnight. 

The  big,  low-ceiled  room  —  they  called  it  a  hall  —  was 
packed  with  men  and  women  dancing  to  the  music  of  three 
fiddles.  There  were  broad  galleries  all  around  it.  There 
was  a  room  at  one  side  where  sober-faced  men  were  play- 
ing cards.  Another,  in  which  babies  were  sleeping,  was 
called  le  pare  aux  petits.  Any  one  who  is  white  may  go  to  a 
'Cadian  ball,  but  he  must  pay  for  his  lemonade,  his  coffee, 
and  chicken  gumbo.  And  he  must  behave  himself  like  a 
'Cadian.  Grosbceuf  was  giving  this  ball.  He  had  been  giv- 
ing them  since  he  was  a  young  man,  and  he  was  a  middle- 
aged  one,  now.  In  that  time  he  could  recall  but  one  dis- 
turbance, and  that  was  caused  by  American  railroaders, 
who  were  not  in  touch  with  their  surroundings  and  had  no 
business  there.  "  Ces  maudits  gens  du  raiderode"  Grosboeuf 
called  them. 

Alcee  Laballiere's  presence  at  the  ball  caused  a  flutter 
even  among  the  men,  who  could  not  but  admire  his  "nerve" 
after  such  misfortune  befalling  him.  To  be  sure,  they  knew 
the  Laballieres  were  rich  —  that  there  were  resources  East, 
and  more  again  in  the  city.  But  they  felt  it  took  a  brave 


AT  THE  'CADIAN  BALL  155 

homme  to  stand  a  blow  like  that  philosophically.  One  old 
gentleman,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  a  Paris  news- 
paper and  knew  things,  chuckled  t  gleefully  to  everybody 
that  Alcee's  conduct  was  altogether  chic,  mais  chic.  That 
he  had  more  panache  than  Boulanger.  Well,  perhaps  he  had. 

But  what  he  did  not  show  outwardly  was  that  he  was  in  a 
mood  for  ugly  things  to-night.  Poor  Bobinot  alone  felt  it 
vaguely.  He  discerned  a  gleam  of  it  in  Alcee's  handsome 
eyes,  as  the  young  planter  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking 
with  rather  feverish  glance  upon  the  assembly,  while  he 
laughed  and  talked  with  a  'Cadian  farmer  who  was  beside 
him. 

Bobinot  himself  was  dull-looking  and  clumsy.  Most  o£ 
the  men  were.  But  the  young  women  were  very  beautiful. 
The  eyes  that  glanced  into  Alcee's  as  they  passed  him  were 
big,  dark,  soft  as  those  of  the  young  heifers  standing  out  in 
the  cool  prairie  grass. 

But  the  belle  was  Calixta.  Her  white  dress  was^  not 
nearly  so  handsome  or  well  made  as  Frame's  (she  and 
Fronie  had  quite  forgotten  the  battle  on  the  church  steps, 
and  were  friends  again),  nor  were  her  slippers  so  stylish  as 
those  of  Ozeina ;  and  she  fanned  herself  with  a  handker- 
chief, since  she  had  broken  her  red  fan  at  the  last  ball,  and 
her  aunts  and  uncles  were  not  willing  to  give  her  another. 
But  all  the  men  agreed  she  was  at  her  best  to-night.  Such 
animation  !  and  abandon !  Such  flashes  of  wit ! 

"He*,  Bobinot!  Mais  w'at's  the  matta?  Wat  you 
standin'  plante  Id  like  ole  Ma'ame  Tina's  cow  in  the  bog, 
you?" 

That  was  good.  That  was  an  excellent  thrust  at  Bobi- 
not, who  had  forgotten  the  figure  of  the  dance  with  his 
mind  bent  on  other  things,  and  it  started  a  clamor  of 
laughter  at  his  expense.  He  joined  good-naturedly.  It  was 
better  to  receive  even  such  notice  as  that  from  Calixta 
than  none  at  all.  But  Madame  Suzanne,  sitting  in  a  corner, 


156  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

whispered  to  her  neighbor  that  if  Ozeina  were  to  conduct 
herself  in  a  like  manner,  she  should  immediately  be  taken 
out  to  the  mule-cart  and  driven  home.  The  women  did  not 
always  approve  of  Calixta. 

Now  and  then  were  short  lulls  in  the  dance,  when  couples 
flocked  out  upon  the  galleries  for  a  brief  respite  and  fresh 
air.  The  moon  had  gone  down  pale  in  the  west,  and  hi  the 
east  was  yet  no  promise  of  day.  After  such  an  interval, 
when  the  dancers  again  assembled  to  resume  the  inter- 
rupted quadrille,  Calixta  was  not  among  them. 

She  was  sitting  upon  a  bench  out  in  the  shadow,  with 
Alcee  beside  her.  They  were  acting  like  fools.  He  had  at- 
tempted to  take  a  little  gold  ring  from  her  finger ;  just  for 
the  fun  of  it,  for  there  was  nothing  he  could  have  done  with 
the  ring  but  replace  it  again.  But  she  clinched  her  hand 
tight.  He  pretended  that  it  was  a  very  difficult  matter  to 
open  it.  Then  he  kept  the  hand  in  his.  They  seemed  to 
forget  about  it.  He  played  with  her  ear-ring,  a  thin  cres- 
cent of  gold  hanging  from  her  small  brown  ear.  He  caught 
a  wisp  of  the  kinky  hair  that  had  escaped  its  fastening,  and 
rubbed  the  ends  of  it  against  his  shaven  cheek. 

"You  know,  last  year  in  Assumption,  Calixta?"  They 
belonged  to  the  younger  generation,  so  preferred  to  speak 
English. 

"Don't  come  say  Assumption  to  me,  M'sieur  Alcee.  I 
done  yeard  Assumption  till  I'm  plumb  sick." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  The  idiots !  Because  you  were  in  Assump- 
tion, and  I  happened  to  go  to  Assumption,  they  must  have 
it  that  we  went  together.  But  it  was  nice  —  hein,  Calixta  ? 
—  in  Assumption?" 

They  saw  Bobinot  emerge  from  the  hall  and  stand  a 
moment  outside  the  lighted  doorway,  peering  uneasily  and 
searchingly  into  the  darkness.  He  did  not  see  them,  and 
went  slowly  back. 
A  "There  is  Bobinot  looking  for  you.  You  are  going  to  set 


AT  THE  'CADIAN  BALL  157 

poor  Bobin6t  crazy.  You'll  marry  him  some  day;  hein, 
Calixta?" 

"I  don't  say  no,  me,"  she  replied;  striving  to  withdraw 
her  hand,  which  he  held  more  firmly  for  the  attempt. 

"But  come,  Calixta;  you  know  you  said  you  would  go 
back  to  Assumption,  just  to  spite  them." 

"No,  I  neva  said  that,  me.  You  mus'  dreamt  that." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  did.  You  know  I'm  going  down  to 
the  city." 

"Wen?" 

"To-night." 

"Betta  make  has'e,  then;  it's  mos*  day." 

"Well,to-morrow'lldo." 

"  Wat  you  goin'  do,  yonda  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  Drown  myself  in  the  lake,  maybe;  un- 
less you  go  down  there  to  visit  your  uncle." 

Calixta's  senses  were  reeling;  and  they  well-night  left 
her  when  she  felt  Alcee's  lips  brush  her  ear  like  the  touch  of 
a  rose. 

"  Mista  Alcee !  Is  dat  Mista  Alcee  ?  "  the  thick  voice  of  a 
negro  was  asking ;  he  stood  on  the  ground,  holding  to  the 
banister-rails  near  which  the  couple  sat. 

"Wat  do  you  want  now?"  cried  Alcee  impatiently. 
"Can't  I  have  a  moment  of  peace?" 

"I  ben  huntin'  you  high  an'  low,  suh,"  answered  the 
man.  "Dey  —  dey  some  one  in  de  road,  onda  de  mulbare- 
tree,  want  see  you  a  minute." 

"I  wouldn't  go  out  to  the  road  to  see  the  angel  Gabriel. 
And  if  you  come  back  here  with  any  more  talk,  I'll  have  to 
break  your  neck."  The  negro  turned  mumbling  away. 

Alcee  and  Calixta  laughed  softly  about  it.  Her  boister- 
ousness  was  all  gone.  They  talked  low,  and  laughed  softly, 
as  lovers  do. 

"Alcee !  Alcee  Laballiere !" 

It  was  not  the  negro's  voice  this  time ;  but  one  that  went 


158  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

through  AlceVs  body  like  an  electric  shock,  bringing  him  to 
his  feet. 

Clarisse  was  standing  there  in  her  riding-habit,  where  the 
negro  had  stood.  For  an  instant  confusion  reigned  in 
Alcee's  thoughts,  as  with  one  who  awakes  suddenly  from  a 
dream.  But  he  felt  that  something  of  serious  import  had 
brought  his  cousin  to  the  ball  in  the  dead  of  night. 

"Wat  does  this  mean,  Clarisse?"  he  asked. 

"It  means  something  has  happen'  at  home.  You  mus* 
come." 

"Happened  to  maman?"  he  questioned,  in  alarm. 

"No;  nSnaine  is  well,  and  asleep.  It  is  something  else. 
Not  to  frighten  you.  But  you  mus'  come.  Come  with  me, 
Alcee." 

There  was  no  need  for  the  imploring  note.  He  would 
have  followed  the  voice  anywhere. 

She  had  now  recognized  the  girl  sitting  back  on  the 
bench. 

"Ah,  c'est  vous,  Calixta?  Comment  pa  va,  mon  enfant?" 

"Tcha  va  Ven;  et  vous,  mam'zelle?" 

Alcee  swung  himself  over  the  low  rail  and  started  to  fol- 
low Clarisse,  without  a  word,  without  a  glance  back  at 
the  girl.  He  had  forgotten  he  was  leaving  her  there.  But 
Clarisse  whispered  something  to  him,  and  he  turned  back 
to  say  "Good-night,  Calixta,"  and  offer  his  hand  to  press 
through  the  railing.  She  pretended  not  to  see  it. 

"How  come  that  ?  You  settin'  yere  by  yo'se'f ,  Calixta  ?  " 
It  was  Bobinot  who  had  found  her  there  alone.  The  danc- 
ers had  not  yet  come  out.  She  looked  ghastly  in  the  faint, 
gray  light  struggling  out  of  the  east. 

"Yes,  that's  me.  Go  yonda  in  the  pare  aux  petits  an*  ask 
Aunt  Olisse  fu'  my  hat.  She  knows  w'ere  'tis.  I  want  to  go 
home,  me." 

"How  you  came?" 


AT  THE  'CADIAN  BALL  159 

"I  come  afoot,  with  the  Cateaus.  But  I'm  goin'  now.  I 
ent  goin'  wait  fu'  'em.  I'm  plumb  wo'  out,  me." 

"Kin  I  go  with  you,  Calixta?" 

"I  don'  care." 

They  went  together  across  the  open  prairie  and  along  the 
edge  of  the  fields,  stumbling  in  the  uncertain  light.  He  told 
her  to  lift  her  dress  that  was  getting  wet  and  bedraggled ; 
for  she  was  pulling  at  the  weeds  and  grasses  with  her  hands. 

"  I  don'  care ;  it's  got  to  go  in  the  tub,  anyway.  You  been 
sayin'  all  along  you  want  to  marry  me,  Bobinot.  Well,  if 
you  want,  yet,  I  don'  care,  me." 

The  glow  of  a  sudden  and  overwhelming  happiness  shone 
out  in  the  brown,  rugged  face  of  the  young  Acadian.  He 
could  not  speak,  for  very  joy.  It  choked  him. 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  don't  want,"  snapped  Calixta,  flip- 
pantly, pretending  to  be  piqued  at  his  silence. 

"Bon  Dieu!  You  know  that  makes  me  crazy,  w'at  you 
sayin'.  You  mean  that,  Calixta  ?  You  ent  goin'  turn  roun' 
ag'in?" 

"  I  neva  tole  you  that  much  yet,  Bobinot.  I  mean  that. 
Tiens"  and  she  held  out  her  hand  in  the  business-like  man- 
ner of  a  man  who  clinches  a  bargain  with  a  hand-clasp. 
Bobinot  grew  bold  with  happiness  and  asked  Calixta  to  kiss 
him.  She  turned  her  face,  that  was  almost  ugly  after  the 
night's  dissipation,  and  looked  steadily  into  his. 

"I  don'  want  to  kiss  you,  Bobinot,"  she  said,  turning 
away  again,  "not  to-day.  Some  other  time.  Bonte  divine! 
ent  you  satisfy,  yet!19 

"Oh,  I'm  satisfy,  Calixta,"  he  said. 

«.<««*«••• 

Riding  through  a  patch  of  wood,  Clarisse's  saddle  be- 
came ungirted,  and  she  and  Alcee  dismounted  to  readjust 
it. 

For  the  twentieth  time  he  asked  her  what  had  happened 
at  home. 


160  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

"  But,  Clarisse,  w'at  is  it  ?  Is  it  a  misfortune  ?  " 

"Ah,  Dieu  sail!  It's  only  something  that  happen*  to 
me." 

"To  you!" 

"I  saw  you  go  away  las'  night,  Alcee,  with  those  saddle- 
bags," she  said,  haltingly,  striving  to  arrange  something 
about  the  saddle,  "an'  I  made  Bruce  tell  me.  He  said  you 
had  gone  to  the  ball,  an'  wouldn'  be  home  for  weeks  an* 
weeks.  I  thought,  Alcee  —  maybe  you  were  going  to  —  to 
Assumption.  I  got  wild.  An'  then  I  knew  if  you  didn't 
come  back,  nowy  to-night,  I  couldn't  stan'  it  —  again." 

She  had  her  face  hidden  in  her  arm  that  she  was  resting 
against  the  saddle  when  she  said  that. 

He  began  to  wonder  if  this  meant  love.  But  she  had  to 
tell  him  so,  before  he  believed  it.  And  when  she  told  him, 
he  thought  the  face  of  the  Universe  was  changed  —  just 
like  Bobinot.  Was  it  last  week  the  cyclone  had  well-nigh 
ruined  him  ?  The  cyclone  seemed  a  huge  joke,  now.  It  was 
he,  then,  who,  an  hour  ago,  was  kissing  little  Calixta's  ear 
and  whispering  nonsense  into  it.  Calixta  was  like  a  myth, 
now.  The  one,  only,  great  reality  in  the  world  was  Clarisse 
standing  before  him,  telling  him  that  she  loved  him. 

In  the  distance  they  heard  the  rapid  discharge  of  pistol- 
shots  ;  but  it  did  not  disturb  them.  They  knew  it  was  only 
the  negro  musicians  who  had  gone  into  the  yard  to  fire 
their  pistols  into  the  air,  as  the  custom  is,  and  to  announce 
"lebalestfini." 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO1 
BY  GERTRUDE  ATHERTON 


WITHIN  memory  of  the  most  gnarled  and  coffee-colored 
Montereiio  never  had  there  been  so  exciting  a  race-day.  All 
essential  conditions  seemed  to  have  held  counsel  and  agreed 
to  combine.  Not  a  wreath  of  fog  floated  across  the  bay  to 
dim  the  sparkling  air.  Every  horse,  every  vaquero,  was 
alert  and  physically  perfect.  The  rains  were  over ;  the  dust 
was  not  gathered.  Pio  Pico,  Governor  of  the  Californias, 
was  in  Monterey  on  one  of  his  brief  infrequent  visits.  Clad 
in  black  velvet,  covered  with  jewels  and  ropes  of  gold,  he 
sat  on  his  big  chestnut  horse  at  the  upper  end  of  the  field, 
with  General  Castro,  Dona  Modeste  Castro,  and  other 
prominent  Monterenos,  his  interest  so  keen  that  more  than 
once  the  official  dignity  relaxed,  and  he  shouted  "Bravo !" 
with  the  rest. 

And  what  a  brilliant  sight  it  was !  The  flowers  had  faded 
on  the  hills,  for  June  was  upon  them ;  but  gayer  than  the 
hills  had  been  was  the  race-field  of  Monterey.  Caballeros, 
with  silver  on  their  wide  gray  hats  and  on  their  saddles  of 
embossed  leather,  gold  and  silver  embroidery  on  their  vel- 
vet scrapes,  crimson  sashes  about  their  slender  waists,  sil- 
ver spurs  and  buckskin  botas,  stood  tensely  in  their  stirrups 
as  the  racers  flew  by,  or,  during  the  short  intervals,  pressed 
each  other  with  eager  wagers.  There  was  little  money  in 
that  time.  The  golden  skeleton  within  the  sleeping  body  of 
California  had  not  yet  been  laid  bare.  But  ranches  were 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Splendid  Idle  Forties,  by  Gertrude 
Atherton.  (Part  V  has  been  omitted.)  Copyright,  1902,  by  Frederick 
A.  Stokes  Company. 


162  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

lost  and  won ;  thousands  of  cattle  would  pass  to  other  hands 
at  the  next  rodeo;  many  a  superbly  caparisoned  steed 
•would  rear  and  plunge  between  the  spurs  of  a  new  master. 

And  caballeros  were  not  the  only  living  pictures  of  that 
memorable  day  of  a  time  forever  gone.  Beautiful  women 
in  silken  fluttering  gowns,  bright  flowers  holding  the  man- 
tilla from  flushed  awakened  faces,  sat  their  impatient 
horses  as  easily  as  a  gull  rides  a  wave.  The  sun  beat  down, 
making  dark  cheeks  pink  and  white  cheeks  darker,  but 
those  great  eyes,  strong  with  their  own  fires,  never  faltered. 
The  old  women  in  attendance  grumbled  vague  remon- 
strances at  all  things,  from  the  heat  to  intercepted  coquet- 
ries. But  their  charges  gave  the  good  duefias  little  heed. 
They  shouted  until  their  little  throats  were  hoarse,  smashed 
their  fans,  beat  the  sides  of  their  mounts  with  their  tender 
Lands,  in  imitation  of  the  vaqueros. 

"It  is  the  gayest,  the  happiest,  the  most  careless  life  in 
the  world,"  thought  Pio  Pico,  shutting  his  teeth,  as  he 
looked  about  him.  "But  how  long  will  it  last?  Curse  the 
Americans !  They  are  coming." 

But  the  bright  hot  spark  that  convulsed  assembled  Mon- 
terey shot  from  no  ordinary  condition.  A  stranger  was 
there,  a  guest  of  General  Castro,  Don  Vicente  de  la  Vega  y 
Arillaga,  of  Los  Angeles.  Not  that  a  stranger  was  matter 
for  comment  in  Monterey,  capital  of  California,  but  this 
stranger  had  brought  with  him  horses  which  threatened  to 
disgrace  the  famous  winners  of  the  North.  Two  races  had 
been  won  already  by  the  black  Southern  beasts. 

"Dios  de  mi  alma!"  cried  the  girls,  one  to  the  other, 
"their  coats  are  blacker  than  our  hair !  Their  nostrils  pulse 
like  a  heart  on  fire  !  Their  eyes  flash  like  water  in  the  sun  ! 
Ay!  the  handsome  stranger,  will  he  roll  us  in  the  dust? 
Ay!  our  golden  horses,  with  the  tails  and  manes  of  silver  — • 
how  beautiful  is  the  contrast  with  the  vaqueros  in  their 
black  and  silver,  their  soft  white  linen !  The  shame !  the 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO  163 

shame !  —  if  they  are  put  to  shame  !  Poor  Guido  !  Will  he 
lose  this  day,  when  he  has  won  so  many  ?  But  the  stranger 
is  so  handsome !  Dios  de  mi  vida !  his  eyes  are  like  dark 
blue  stars.  And  he  is  so  cold  !  He  alone  —  he  seems  not  to 
care.  Madre  de  Dios  I  Madre  de  Dios  !  he  wins  again  !  No  ! 
no!  no!  Yes!  Ay/yilyil  B-r-a-v-o!" 

Guido  Cabanares  dug  his  spurs  into  his  horse  and  dashed 
to  the  head  of  the  field,  where  Don  Vicente  sat  at  the  left  of 
General  Castro.  He  was  followed  hotly  by  several  friends, 
sympathetic  and  indignant.  As  he  rode,  he  tore  off  his 
serape  and  flung  it  to  the  ground;  even  his  silk  riding- 
clothes  sat  heavily  upon  his  fury.  Don  Vicente  smiled,  and 
rode  forward  to  meet  him. 

"At  your  service,  seiior,"  he  said,  lifting  his  sombrero. 

"Take  your  mustangs  back  to  Los  Angeles  !"  cried  Don 
Guido,  beside  himself  with  rage,  the  politeness  and  dignity 
of  his  race  routed  by  passion.  "Why  do  you  bring  your 
hideous  brutes  here  to  shame  me  in  the  eyes  of  Monterey  ? 
Why—" 

"Yes!  Why?  Why?"  demanded  his  friends,  surround- 
ing De  la  Vega.  "This  is  not  the  huntiliation  of  a  man,  but 
of  the  North  by  the  accursed  South  !  You  even  would  take 
our  capital  from  us !  Los  Angeles,  the  capital  of  the  Cali- 
fornias!" 

"What  have  politics  to  do  with  horse-racing  ?"  asked  De 
la  Vega,  coldly.  "  Other  strangers  have  brought  their  horses 
to  your  field,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  but  they  have  not  won.  They  have  not  been  from 
the  South." 

By  this  time  almost  every  caballero  on  the  field  was 
wheeling  about  De  la  Vega.  Some  felt  with  Cabanares, 
others  rejoiced  in  his  defeat,  but  all  resented  the  victory  of 
the  South  over  the  North. 

"Will  you  run  again?"  demanded  Cabanares. 

"Certainly.  Do  you  think  of  putting  your  knife  into  my 
neck?" 


164  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

Cabanares  drew  back,  somewhat  abashed,  the  indiffer- 
ence of  the  other  sputtering  like  water  on  his  passion. 

"It  is  not  a  matter  for  blood,"  he  said  sulkily ;  "but  the 
head  is  hot  and  words  are  quick  when  horses  run  neck  to 
neck.  And,  by  the  Mother  of  God,  you  shall  not  have  the 
last  race.  My  best  horse  has  not  run.  Viva  El  Rayo!" 

"Viva  El  Rayo  !"  shouted  the  caballeros. 

"And  let  the  race  be  between  you  two  alone,"  cried  one. 
"The  North  or  the  South !  Los  Angeles  or  Monterey !  It 
will  be  the  race  of  our  life." 

"The  North  or  the  South  !"  cried  the  caballeros,  wheel- 
ing and  galloping  across  the  field  to  the  donas.  "Twenty 
leagues  to  a  real  for  Guido  Cabaiiares." 

"What  a  pity  that  Ysabel  is  not  here!"  said  Dona 
Modeste  Castro  to  Pio  Pico.  "How  those  green  eyes  of  hers 
would  flash  to-day !" 

"She  would  not  come,"  said  the  Governor.  "She  said 
she  was  tired  of  the  race." 

"Of  whom  do  you  speak?"  asked  De  la  Vega,  who  had 
rejoined  them. 

"Of  Ysabel  Herrera,  La  Favorita  of  Monterey,"  an- 
swered Pio  Pico.  "The  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  Cali- 
fornias,  since  Chonita  Iturbi  y  Moncada,  my  Vicente.  It 
is  at  her  uncle's  that  I  stay.  You  have  heard  me  speak  of 
my  old  friend ;  and  surely  you  have  heard  of  her." , 

"Ay I"  said  De  la  Vega.  "I  have  heard  of  her." 

"Viva  El  Rayo!" 

"Ay,  the  ugly  brute!" 

"What  name?  Vitriolo?  Mother  of  God!  Diablo  or 
Demonio  would  suit  him  better.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  been 
bred  in  hell.  He  will  not  stand  the  quirto;  and  El  Rayo  is 
more  lightly  built.  We  shall  beat  by  a  dozen  lengths." 

The  two  vaqueros  who  were  to  ride  the  horses  had 
stripped  to  their  soft  linen  shirts  and  black  velvet  trousers, 
cast  aside  their  sombreros,  and  bound  their  heads  with 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        165 

tightly  knotted  handkerchiefs.  Their  spurs  were  fastened 
to  bare  brown  heels ;  the  cruel  quirto  was  in  the  hand  of 
each ;  they  rode  barebacked,  winding  their  wiry  legs  in  and 
out  of  a  horsehair  rope  encircling  the  body  of  the  animal. 
As  they  slowly  passed  the  crowd  on  their  way  to  the  start- 
ing-point at  the  lower  end  of  the  field,  and  listened  to  the 
rattling  fire  of  wagers  and  comments,  they  looked  defiant, 
and  alive  to  the  importance  of  the  coming  event. 

El  Rayo  shone  like  burnished  copper,  his  silver  mane 
and  tail  glittering  as  if  powdered  with  diamond-dust.  He 
was  long  and  graceful  of  body,  thin  of  flank,  slender  of  leg. 
With  arched  neck  and  flashing  eyes,  he  walked  with  the 
pride  of  one  who  was  aware  of  the  admiration  he  excited. 

Vitriolo  was  black  and  powerful.  His  long  neck  fitted 
into  well-placed  shoulders.  He  had  great  depth  of  girth, 
immense  length  from  shoulder-points  to  hips,  big  cannon- 
bones,  and  elastic  pasterns.  There  was  neither  amiability 
nor  pride  in  his  mien ;  rather  a  sullen  sense  of  brute  power, 
such  as  may  have  belonged  to  the  knights  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  Now  and  again  he  curled  his  lips  away  from  the  bit 
and  laid  his  ears  back  as  if  he  intended  to  eat  of  the  elegant 
Beau  Brummel  stepping  so  daintily  beside  him.  Of  the 
antagonistic  crowd  he  took  not  the  slightest  notice. 

"The  race  begins!  Holy  Heaven!"  The  murmur  rose 
to  a  shout  —  a  deep  hoarse  shout  strangely  crossed  and 
recrossed  by  long  silver  notes ;  a  thrilling  volume  of  sound 
rising  above  a  sea  of  flashing  eyes  and  parted  lips  and  a 
vivid  moving  mass  of  color. 

Twice  the  horses  scored,  and  were  sent  back.  The  third 
time  they  bounded  by  the  starting-post  neck  and  neck, 
nose  to  nose.  Jose  Abrigo,  treasurer  of  Monterey,  dashed 
his  sombrero,  heavy  with  silver  eagles,  to  the  ground,  and 
the  race  was  begun. 

Almost  at  once  the  black  began  to  gain.  Inch  by  inch 
he  fought  his  way  to  the  front,  and  the  roar  with  which  the 


166  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

crowd  had  greeted  the  start  dropped  into  the  silence  cf 
apprehension. 

El  Rayo  was  not  easily  to  be  shaken  off.  A  third  of  the 
distance  had  been  covered,  and  his  nose  was  abreast  of 
Vitriolo's  flank.  The  vaqueros  sat  as  if  carved  from  sun- 
baked clay,  as  lightly  as  if  hollowed,  watching  each  other 
warily  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes. 

The  black  continued  to  gain.  Halfway  from  home  light 
was  visible  between  the  two  horses.  The  pace  became 
terrific,  the  excitement  so  intense  that  not  a  sound  was 
heard  but  that  of  racing  hoofs.  The  horses  swept  onward 
like  projectiles,  the  same  smoothness,  the  same  suggestion 
of  eternal  flight.  The  bodies  were  extended  until  the  tense 
muscles  rose  under  the  satin  coats.  Vftriolo's  eyes  flashed 
viciously;  El  Rayo's  strained  with  determination.  Vi- 
triolo's nostrils  were  as  red  as  angry  craters;  El  Rayo's 
fluttered  like  paper  in  the  wind. 

Three  quarters  of  the  race  was  run,  and  the  rider  of 
Vitriolo  could  tell  by  the  sound  of  the  hoof-beats  behind 
him  that  he  had  a  good  lead  of  at  least  two  lengths  over  the 
Northern  champion.  A  smile  curled  the  corners  of  his 
heavy  lips ;  the  race  was  his  already. 

Suddenly  El  Rayo's  vaquero  raised  his  hand,  and  down 
came  the  maddening  quirto,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the 
other.  The  spurs  dug ;  the  blood  spurted.  The  crowd  burst 
into  a  howl  of  delight  as  their  favorite  responded.  Startled 
by  the  sound,  Vitriolo's  rider  darted  a  glance  over  his 
shoulder,  and  saw  El  Rayo  bearing  down  upon  him  like  a 
thunderbolt,  regaining  the  ground  that  he  had  lost,  not  by 
inches,  but  by  feet.  Two  hundred  paces  from  the  finish  he 
was  at  the  black's  flanks ;  one  hundred  and  fifty,  he  was  at 
his  girth ;  one  hundred,  and  the  horses  were  neck  and  neck ; 
and  still  the  quirto  whirred  down  on  El  Rayo's  heaving 
flanks,  the  spurs  dug  deeper  into  his  quivering  flesh. 
.  The  vaquero  of  Vitriolo  sat  like  an  image,  using  neither 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        167 

whip  nor  spur,  his  teeth  set,  his  eyes  rolling  from  the  goal 
ahead  to  the  rider  at  his  side. 

The  breathless  intensity  of  the  spectators  had  burst. 
They  had  begun  to  click  their  teeth,  to  mutter  hoarsely, 
then  to  shout,  to  gesticulate,  to  shake  their  fists  in  each 
other's  face,  to  push  and  scramble  for  a  better  view. 

"Holy  God!"  cried  Pio  Pico,  carried  out  of  himself, 
"the  South  is  lost!  Vitriolo  the  magnificent!  Ah,  who 
would  have  thought  ?  The  black  by  the  gold !  Ay!  What ! 
No !  Holy  Mary !  Holy  God !  — " 

Six  strides  more  and  the  race  is  over.  With  the  bark  of  a 
coyote  the  vaquero  of  the  South  leans  forward  over  Vitri- 
olo's  neck.  The  big  black  responds  like  a  creature  of  reason. 
Down  comes  the  quirto  once  —  only  once.  He  fairly  lifts 
his  horse  ahead  and  shoots  into  victory,  winner  by  a  neck. 
The  South  has  vanquished  the  North. 

The  crowd  yelled  and  shouted  until  it  was  exhausted. 
But  even  Cabanares  made  no  further  demonstration  to- 
ward De  la  Vega.  Not  only  was  he  weary  and  depressed, 
but  the  victory  had  been  nobly  won. 

It  grew  late,  and  they  rode  to  the  town,  caballeros  push- 
ing as  close  to  donas  as  they  dared,  dueiias  in  close  attend- 
ance, one  theme  on  the  lips  of  all.  Anger  gave  place  to  re- 
spect; moreover,  De  la  Vega  was  the  guest  of  General 
Castro,  the  best-beloved  man  in  California.  They  were 
willing  to  extend  the  hand  of  friendship ;  but  he  rode  last, 
between  the  General  and  Dona  Modeste,  and  seemed  to 
care  as  little  for  their  good  will  as  for  their  ill. 

Pio  Pico  rode  ahead,  and  as  the  cavalcade  entered  the 
town  he  broke  from  it  and  ascended  the  hill  to  carry  the 
news  to  Ysabel  Herrera. 

Monterey,  rising  to  her  pine-spiked  hills,  swept  like  a 
crescent  moon  about  the  sapphire  bay.  The  surf  roared 
and  fought  the  white  sandhills  of  the  distant  horn ;  on  that 
nearest  the  town  stood  the  fort,  grim  and  rude,  but  pul- 


168  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

sating  with  military  life,  and  alert  for  American  onslaught. 
In  the  valley  the  red-tiled  white  adobe  houses  studded  a 
little  city  which  was  a  series  of  corners  radiating  from  a 
central  irregular  street.  A  few  mansions  were  on  the  hill- 
side to  the  right,  brush-crowded  sandbanks  on  the  left ;  the 
perfect  curve  of  hills,  thick  with  pine  woods  and  dense 
green  undergrowth,  rose  high  above  and  around  all,  a  ram- 
part of  splendid  symmetry. 

"Ay!  Ysabel!  Ysabel!"  cried  the  young  people,  as 
they  swept  down  the  broad  street.  "Bring  her  to  us.  Ex- 
cellency. Tell  her  she  shall  not  know  until  she  comes  down. 
We  will  tell  her.  Ay!  poor  Guido !" 

The  Governor  turned  and  waved  his  hand,  then  con- 
tinued the  ascent  of  the  hill,  toward  a  long  low  house 
which  showed  no  sign  of  life. 

He  alighted  and  glanced  into  a  room  opening  upon  the 
corridor  that  traversed  the  front.  The  room  was  large 
and  dimly  lighted  by  deeply  set  windows.  The  floor  was 
bare,  the  furniture  of  horsehair ;  saints  and  family  portraits 
adorned  the  white  walls ;  on  a  chair  lay  a  guitar ;  it  was  a 
typical  Californian  sola  of  that  day.  The  ships  brought 
few  luxuries,  beyond  raiment  and  jewels,  to  even  the 
wealthy  of  that  isolated  country. 

"Ysabel,"  called  the  Governor,  "where  art  thou  ?  Come 
down  to  the  town  and  hear  the  fortune  of  the  races.  Al- 
varado  Street  streams  like  a  comet.  Why  should  the  Star 
of  Monterey  withhold  her  light?" 

A  girl  rose  from  a  sofa  and  came  slowly  forward  to  the 
corridor.  Discontent  marred  her  face  as  she  gave  her 
hand  to  the  Governor  to  kiss,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
brilliant  town.  The  Senorita  Dona  Ysabel  Herrera  was 
poor.  Were  it  not  for  her  uncle  she  would  not  have  where 
to  lay  her  stately  head  —  and  she  was  La  Favorita  of 
Monterey,  the  proudest  beauty  in  California !  Her  father 
had  gambled  away  his  last  acre,  his  horse,  his  saddle,  the 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        169 

serape  off  his  back;  then  sent  his  motherless  girl  to  his 
brother,  and  buried  himself  in  Mexico.  Don  Antonio  took 
the  child  to  his  heart,  and  sent  for  a  widowed  cousin  to  be 
her  duefia.  He  bought  her  beautiful  garments  from  the 
ships  that  touched  the  port,  but  had  no  inclination  to 
gratify  her  famous  longing  to  hang  ropes  of  pearls  on  her 
soft  black  hair,  to  wind  them  about  her  white  neck,  and 
band  them  above  her  green  resplendent  eyes. 

"Unbend  thy  brows,"  said  Pio  Pico.  "Wrinkles  were 
not  made  for  youth." 

Ysabel  moved  her  brows  apart,  but  the  clouds  still  lay  in 
her  eyes. 

"Thou  dost  not  ask  of  the  races,  O  thou  indifferent  one ! 
What  is  the  trouble,  my  Ysabel !  Will  no  one  bring  the 
pearls?  The  loveliest  girl  in  all  the  Calif ornias  has  said, 
'I  will  wed  no  man  who  does  not  bring  me  a  lapful  of 
pearls/  and  no  one  has  filled  the  front  of  that  pretty  flow- 
ered gown.  But  have  reason,  niha.  Remember  that  our 
Alta  California  has  no  pearls  on  its  shores,  and  that  even 
the  pearl  fisheries  of  the  terrible  lower  country  are  almost 
. worn  out.  Will  nothing  less  content  thee  ?  "  * 

"No,  senor." 

"Dios  de  mi  alma!  Thou  hast  ambition.  No  woman  has 
had  more  offered  her  than  thou.  But  thou  art  worthy  of 
the  most  that  man  could  give.  Had  I  not  a  wife  myself,  I 
believe  I  should  throw  my  jewels  and  my  ugly  old  head  at 
thy  little  feet." 

Ysabel  glanced  with  some  envy  at  the  magnificent  jewels 
with  which  the  Governor  of  the  Californias  was  hung,  but 
did  not  covet  the  owner.  An  uglier  man  than  Pio  Pico 
rarely  had  entered  this  world.  The  upper  lip  of  his  enor- 
mous mouth  dipped  at  the  middle ;  the  broad,  thick  under 
lip  hung  down  with  its  own  weight.  The  nose  was  big  and 
coarse,  although  there  was  a  certain  spirited  suggestion  in 
the  cavernous  nostrils.  Intelligence  and  reflectiveness  were 


170  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

also  in  his  little  eyes,  and  they  were  far  apart.  A  small 
white  mustache  grew  above  his  mouth;  about  his  chin, 
from  ear  to  ear,  was  a  short  stubby  beard,  whiter  by  con- 
trast with  his  copper-colored  skin.  He  looked  much  like 
an  intellectual  bear. 

And  Ysabel?  In  truth,  she  had  reason  for  her  pride. 
Her  black  hair,  unblemished  by  gloss  or  tinge  of  blue,  fell 
waving  to  her  feet.  California,  haughty,  passionate,  rest- 
less, pleasure-loving,  looked  from  her  dark  green  eyes ;  the 
soft  black  lashes  dropped  quickly  when  they  became  too 
expressive.  Her  full  mouth  was  deeply  red,  but  only  a  faint 
pink  lay  in  her  white  cheeks ;  the  nose  curved  at  bridge  and 
nostrils.  About  her  low  shoulders  she  held  a  blue  reboso, 
the  finger-tips  of  each  slim  hand  resting  on  the  opposite 
elbow.  She  held  her  head  a  little  back,  and  Pio  Pico 
laughed  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"Dios!"  he  said,  "but  thou  might  be  an  Estenega  or  an 
Iturbi  y  Moncada.  Surely  that  lofty  head  better  suits  Old 
Spain  than  the  Republic  of  Mexico.  Draw  the  reboso 
about  thy  head  now,  and  let  us  go  down.  They  expect 
thee." 

She  lifted  the  scarf  above  her  hair,  and  walked  down  the 
steep  rutted  hill  with  the  Governor,  her  flowered  gown 
floating  with  a  silken  rustle  about  her.  In  a  few  moments 
she  was  listening  to  the  tale  of  the  races. 

"Ay,  Ysabel !  Dios  de  mi  alma!  What  a  day !  A  young 
senor  from  Los  Angeles  won  the  race  —  almost  all  the 
races  —  the  Senor  Don  Vicente  de  la  Vega  y  Arillaga.  He 
has  never  been  here,  before.  His  horses !  Madre  de  Dios ! 
They  ran  like  hares.  Poor  Guido !  Valgame  Dios !  Even 
thou  wouldst  have  been  moved  to  pity.  But  he  is  so  hand- 
some! Look!  Look!  He  comes  now,  side  by  side  with 
General  Castro.  Dios!  his  serape  is  as  stiff  with  gold  as 
the  vestments  of  the  padre." 

Ysabel  looked  up  as  a  man  rode  past.  His  bold  profile 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        171 

and  thin  face  were  passionate  and  severe;  his  dark  blue 
eyes  were  full  of  power.  Such  a  face  was  rare  among  the 
languid  shallow  men  of  her  race. 

"He  rides  with  General  Castro,"  whispered  Benicia 
Ortega.  "  He  stays  with  him.  We  shall  see  him  at  the  ball 
to-night." 

As  Don  Vicente  passed  Ysabel  their  eyes  met  for  a 
moment.  His  opened  suddenly  with  a  bold  eager  flash, 
his  arched  nostrils  twitching.  The  color  left  her  face,  and 
her  eyes  dropped  heavily. 

Love  needed  no  kindling  in  the  heart  of  the  Californian, 

II 

THE  people  of  Monterey  danced  every  night  of  their  lives, 
and  went  nowhere  so  promptly  as  to  the  great  sala  of  Dona 
Modeste  Castro,  their  leader  of  fashion,  whose  gowns  were 
made  for  her  in  the  City  of  Mexico. 

Ysabel  envied  her  bitterly.  Not  because  the  Dona  Mo- 
deste's  skin  was  whiter  than  her  own,  for  it  could  not  be, 
nor  her  eyes  greener,  for  they  were  not ;  but  because  her 
jewels  were  richer  than  Pio  Pico's,  and  upon  all  grand 
occasions  a  string  of  wonderful  pearls  gleamed  in  her  storm- 
black  hair.  But  one  feminine  compensation  had  Ysabel: 
she  was  taller ;  Dona  Modeste's  slight  elegant  figure  lacked 
YsabePs  graceful  inches,  and  perhaps  she  too  felt  a  pang 
sometimes  as  the  girl  undulated  above  her  like  a  snake 
about  to  strike. 

At  the  fashionable  hour  of  ten  Monterey  was  gathered 
for  the  dance.  All  the  men  except  the  officers  wore  black 
velvet  or  broadcloth  coats  and  white  trousers.  All  the 
women  wore  white,  the  waist  long  and  pointed,  the  skirt 
full.  Ysabel's  gown  was  of  embroidered  crepe.  Her  hair 
was  coiled  about  her  head,  and  held  by  a  tortoise  comb 
framed  with  a  narrow  band  of  gold.  Pio  Pico,  splendid  with 
stars  and  crescents  and  rings  and  pins,  led  her  in,  and  with 
his  unique  ugliness  enhanced  her  beauty.  (' 


172  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

She  glanced  eagerly  about  the  room  whilst  replying  ab- 
sently to  the  caballeros  who  surrounded  her.  Don  Vicente 
de  la  Vega  was  not  there.  The  thick  circle  about  her  parted, 
and  General  Castro  bent  over  her  hand,  begging  the  honor 
of  the  contradanza.  She  sighed,  and  for  the  moment  forgot 
the  Southerner  who  had  flashed  and  gone  like  the  begin- 
ning of  a  dream.  Here  was  a  man  —  the  only  man  of  her 
knowledge  whom  she  could  have  loved,  and  who  would 
have  found  her  those  pearls.  Californians  had  so  little  am- 
bition! Then  she  gave  a  light  audacious  laugh.  Governor 
Pico  was  shaking  hands  cordially  with  General  Castro,  the 
man  he  hated  best  in  California. 

No  two  men  could  have  contrasted  more  sharply  than 
Jose  Castro  and  Pio  Pico  —  with  the  exception  of  Alva- 
rado  the  most  famous  men  of  their  country.  The  gold  trim- 
mings of  the  general's  uniform  were  his  only  jewels.  His 
hair  and  beard  —  the  latter  worn  a  la  Basca,  a  narrow  strip 
curving  from  upper  lip  to  ear  —  were  as  black  as  Pio  Pico's 
once  had  been.  The  handsomest  man  in  California,  he  had 
less  consciousness  than  the  least  of  the  caballeros.  His  deep 
gray  eyes  were  luminous  with  enthusiasm;  his  nose  was 
sharp  and  bold ;  his  firm  sensitive  mouth  was  cut  above  a 
resolute  chin.  He  looked  what  he  was,  the  ardent  patriot 
of  a  doomed  cause. 

"Senorita,"  he  said,  as  he  led  Ysabel  out  to  the  sweet, 
monotonous  music  of  the  contradanza,  "did  you  see  the 
caballero  who  rode  with  me  to-day?" 

A  red  light  rose  to  Ysabel's  cheek.  "Which  one,  com- 
andante  ?  Many  rode  with  you." 

"I  mean  him  who  rode  at  my  right,  the  winner  of  the 
races,  Vicente,  son  of  my  old  friend  Juan  Bautista  de  la 
Vega  y  Arillaga,  of  Los  Angeles." 

"It  may  be.  I  think  I  saw  a  strange  face." 

"He  saw  yours,  Dona  Ysabel,  and  is  looking  upon  you 
now  from  the  corridor  without,  although  the  fog  is  heavy 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        173 

about  him.  Cannot  you  see  him  —  that  dark  shadow  by 
the  pillar?" 

Ysabel  never  went  through  the  graceful  evolutions  of  the 
contradanza  as  she  did  that  night.  Her  supple  slender  body 
curved  and  swayed  and  glided ;  her  round  arms  were  like 
lazy  snakes  uncoiling ;  her  exquisitely  poised  head  moved 
in  perfect  concord  with  her  undulating  hips.  Her  eyes  grew 
brighter,  her  lips  redder.  The  young  men  who  stood  near 
gave  as  loud  a  vent  to  their  admiration  as  if  she  had  been 
dancing  El  Son  alone  on  the  floor.  But  the  man  without 
made  no  sign. 

After  the  dance  was  over,  General  Castro  led  her  to  her 
duefia,  and  handing  her  a  guitar,  begged  a  song. 

She  began  a  light  love-ballad,  singing  with  the  grace  and 
style  of  her  Spanish  blood ;  a  little  mocking  thing,  but  with 
a  wild  break  now  and  again.  As  she  sang,  she  fixed  her  eyes 
coquettishly  on  the  adoring  face  of  Guido  Cabanares,  who 
stood  beside  her,  but  saw  every  movement  of  the  form 
beyond  the  window.  Don  Guido  kept  his  ardent  eyes 
riveted  upon  her,  but  detected  no  wandering  in  her  glances. 
His  lips  trembled  as  he  listened,  and  once  he  brushed  the 
tears  from  his  eyes.  She  gave  him  a  little  cynical  smile, 
then  broke  her  song  in  two.  The  man  in  the  corridor  had 
vaulted  through  the  window. 

Ysabel,  clinching  her  hands  the  better  to  control  her 
jumping  nerves,  turned  quickly  to  Cabanares,  who  had 
pressed  behind  her,  and  was  pouring  words  into  her  ear. 

"Ysabel!  Ysabel!  Hast  thou  no  pity?  Dost  thou  not 
see  that  I  am  fit  to  set  the  world  on  fire  for  love  of  thee  ? 
The  very  water  boils  as  I  drink  it  — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  scornful  laugh,  the  sharper 
that  her  voice  might  not  tremble.  "Bring  me  my  pearls. 
What  is  love  worth  when  it  will  not  grant  one  little  desire  ?" 

He  groaned.  "  I  have  found  a  vein  of  gold  on  my  rancho. 
I  can  pick  the  little  shining  pieces  out  with  my  fingers.  I 
will  have  them  beaten  into  a  saddle  for  thee  — " 


174  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

But  she  had  turned  her  back  flat  upon  him,  and  was 
making  a  deep  curtesy  to  the  man  whom  General  Castro 
presented. 

"  I  appreciate  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance,"  she  mur- 
mured mechanically. 

"At  your  feet,  seiiorita,"  said  Don  Vicente. 

The  art  of  making  conversation  had  not  been  cultivated 
among  the  Californians,  and  Ysabel  plied  her  large  fan 
with  slow  grace,  at  a  loss  for^'further  remark,  and  wonder- 
ing if  her  heart  would  suffocate  her.  But  Don  Vicente  had 
the  gift  of  words.  • 

"Seiiorita,"  he  said,  "I  have  stood  in  the  chilling  fog  and 
felt  the  warmth  of  your  lovely  voice  at  my  heart.  The  emo- 
tions I  felt  my  poor  tongue  cannot  translate.  They  swarm 
in  my  head  like  a  hive  of  puzzled  bees ;  but  perhaps  they 
look  through  my  eyes,"  and  he  fixed  his  powerful  and  pene- 
trating gaze  on  Ysabel's  green  depths. 

A  waltz  began,  and  he  took  her  in  his  arms  without  ask- 
ing her  indulgence,  and  regardless  of  the  indignation  of  the 
mob  of  men  about  her.  Ysabel,  whose  being  was  filled  with 
tumult,  lay  passive  as  he  held  her  closer  than  man  had  ever 
dared  before. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said,  in  his  harsh  voice.  "  I  wish  you  for 
my  wife.  At  once.  When  I  saw  you  to-day  standing  with  a 
hundred  other  beautiful  women,  I  said :  'She  is  the  fairest 
of  them  all.  I  shall  have  her.'  And  I  read  the  future  in  "  — 
he  suddenly  dropped  the  formal  "you"  —  "in  thine  eyes, 
carina.  Thy  soul  sprang  to  mine.  Thy  heart  is  locked  in 
my  heart  closer,  closer  than  my  arms  are  holding  thee  now." 

The  strength  of  his  embrace  was  violent  for  a  moment ; 
but  Ysabel  might  have  been  cut  from  marble.  Her  body 
had  lost  its  swaying  grace ;  it  was  almost  rigid.  She  did  not 
lift  her  eyes.  But  De  la  Vega  was  not  discouraged. 

The  music  finished,  and  Ysabel  was  at  once  surrounded 
by  a  determined  retinue.  This  intruding  Southerner  was 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO  175 

welcome  to  the  honors  of  the  race-field,  but  the  Star  of 
Monterey  was  not  for  him.  He  smiled  as  he  saw  the  menace 
of  their  eyes. 

"I  would  have  her,"  he  thought,  "if  they  were  a  regi- 
ment of  Castros  —  which  they  are  not."  But  he  had  not 
armed  himself  against  diplomacy. 

"Senor  Don  Vicente  de  la  Vega  y  Arillaga,"  said  Don 
Guido  Cabanares,  who  had  been  selected  as  spokesman, 
"perhaps  you  have  not  learned  during  your  brief  visit  to 
our  capital  that  the  Senorita  Dona  Ysabel  Herrera,  La 
Favorita  of  Alta  California,  has  sworn  by  the  Holy  Virgin, 
by  the  blessed  Junipero  Serra,  that  she  will  wed  no  man 
who  does  not  bring  her  a  lapful  of  pearls.  Can  you  find 
those  pearls  on  the  sands  of  the  South,  Don  Vicente  ?  For, 
by  the  holy  cross  of  God,  you  cannot  have  her  without 
them!" 

'  For  a  moment  De  la  Vega  was  disconcerted. !«. 

"Is  this  true?"  he  demanded,  turning  to  Ysabel. 

"What,  sefior  ?  "  she  asked  vaguely.  She  had  not  listened 
to  the  words  of  her  protesting  admirer. 

A  sneer  bent  his  mouth.  "That  you  have  put  a  price 
upon  yourself?  That  the  man  who  ardently  wishes  to  be 
your  husband,  who  has  even  won  your  love,  must  first 
hang  you  with  pearls  like  — "  He  stopped  suddenly,  the 
blood  burning  his  dark  face,  his  eyes  opening  with  an  ex- 
pression of  horrified  hope.  "Tell  me!  Tell  me!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Is  this  true?" 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  spoken  with  him  Ysabel 
was  herself.  She  crossed  her  arms  and  tapped  her  elbows 
with  her  pointed  fingers. 

y  "Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  true."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
and  regarded  him  steadily.  They  looked  like  green  pools 
frozen  in  a  marble  wall. 

The  harp,  the  flute,  the  guitar,  combined  again,  and  once 
more  he  swung  her  from  a  furious  circle.  But  he  was  safe ; 


176  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

General  Castro  had  joined  it.  He  waltzed  her  down  the 
long  room,  through  one  adjoining,  then  into  another,  and, 
indifferent  to  the  iron  conventions  of  his  race,  closed  the 
door  behind  them.  They  were  in  the  sleeping-room  of 
Dona  Modeste.  The  bed  with  its  rich  satin  coverlet,  the 
bare  floor,  the  simple  furniture,  were  in  semi-darkness; 
only  on  the  altar  in  the  corner  were  candles  burning.  Above 
it  hung  paintings  of  saints,  finely  executed  by  Mexican 
hands ;  an  ebony  cross  spread  its  black  arms  against  the 
white  wall;  the  candles  flared  to  a  golden  Christ.  He 
caught  her  hands  and  led  her  over  to  the  altar. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "I  will  bring  you  those  pearls. 
You  shall  have  such  pearls  as  no  queen  in  Europe  possesses. 
Swear  to  me  here,  with  your  hands  on  this  altar,  that  you 
will  wed  me  when  I  return,  no  matter  how  or  where  I  find 
those  pearls." 

He  was  holding  her  hands  between  the  candelabra.  She 
looked  at  him  with  eyes  of  passionate  surrender ;  the  man 
had  conquered  worldly  ambitions.  But  he  answered  her 
before  she  had  time  to  speak. 

"You  love  me,  and  would  withdraw  the  conditions.  But 
I  am  ready  to  do  a  daring  and  a  terrible  act.  Furthermore, 
I  wish  to  show  you  that  I  can  succeed  where  all  other  men 
have  failed.  I  ask  only  two  things  now.  First,  make  me  the 
vow  I  wish." 

"  I  swear  it,"  she  said. 

"Now,"  he  said,  his  voice  sinking  to  a  harsh  but  caress- 
ing whisper,  "give  me  one  kiss  for  courage  and  hope." 

She  leaned  slowly  forward,  the  blood  pulsing  in  her  lips ; 
but  she  had  been  brought  up  behind  grated  windows,  and 
she  drew  back.  "No,"  she  said,  "not  now." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  rebellious;  then  he  laid  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders  and  pressed  her  to  her  knees.  He 
knelt  behind  her,  and  together  they  told  a  rosary  for  his 
safe  return.  ' 


THE  PEAELS  OF  LORETO        177 

He  left  her  there  and  went  to  his  room.  From  his  saddle- 
bag he  took  a  long  letter  from  an  intimate  friend,  one  of  the 
younger  Franciscan  priests  of  the  Mission  of  Santa  Bar- 
bara, where  he  had  been  educated.  He  sought  this  para- 
graph: 

"  Thou  knowest,  of  course,  my  Vicente,  of  the  pearl  fish- 
eries of  Baja  California.  It  is  whispered  —  between  our- 
selves, indeed,  it  is  quite  true  —  that  a  short  while  ago  the 
Indian  divers  discovered  an  extravagantly  rich  bed  of 
pearls.  Instead  of  reporting  to  any  of  the  companies,  they 
have  hung  them  all  upon  our  Most  Sacred  Lady  of  Loreto, 
in  the  Mission  of  Loreto ;  and  there,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
they  will  remain.  They  are  worth  the  ransom  of  a  king,  my 
Vicente,  and  the  Church  has  come  to  her  own  again." 

in 

THE  fog  lay  thick  on  the  bay  at  dawn  next  morning.  The 
white  waves  hid  the  blue,  muffled  the  roar  of  the  surf. 
Now  and  again  a  whale  threw  a  volume  of  spray  high  in 
the  air,  a  geyser  from  a  phantom  sea.  Above  the  white 
sands  straggled  the  white  town,  ghostly,  prophetic. 

De  la  Vega,  a  dark  sombrero  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a  dark 
scrape  enveloping  his  tall  figure,  rode,  unattended  and 
watchful,  out  of  the  town.  Not  until  he  reached  the  nar- 
row road  through  the  brush  forest  beyond  did  he  give  his 
horse  rein.  The  indolence  of  the  Californian  was  no 
longer  in  his  carriage ;  it  looked  alert  and  muscular ;  reck- 
lessness accentuated  the  sternness  of  his  face. 

As  he  rode,  the  fog  receded  slowly.  He  left  the  chaparral 
and  rode  by  green  marshes  cut  with  sloughs  and  stained 
with  vivid  patches  of  orange.  The  frogs  in  the  tules 
chanted  their  hoarse  matins.  Through  brush-covered 
plains  once  more,  with  sparsely  wooded  hills  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  again  the  tules,  the  marsh,  the  patches  of 
orange.  He  rode  through  a  field  of  mustard ;  the  pale  yel- 


178  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

low  petals  brushed  his  dark  face,  the  delicate  green  leaves 
won  his  eyes  from  the  hot  glare  of  the  ascending  sun,  the 
slender  stalks,  rebounding,  smote  his  horse's  flanks.  He 
climbed  hills  to  avoid  the  wide  marshes,  and  descended 
into  willow  groves  and  fields  of  daisies.  Before  noon  he 
was  in  the  San  Juan  Mountains,  thick  with  sturdy  oaks, 
bending  their  heads  before  the  madrono,  that  belle  of  the 
forest,  with  her  robes  of  scarlet  and  her  crown  of  bronze. 
The  yellow  lilies  clung  to  her  skirts,  and  the  buckeye  flung 
his  flowers  at  her  feet.  The  last  redwoods  were  there, 
piercing  the  blue  air  with  their  thin  inflexible  arms,  gray 
as  a  dusty  band  of  friars.  Out  by  the  willows,  whereunder 
crept  the  sluggish  river,  then  between  the  hills  curving 
about  the  valley  of  San  Juan  Bautista. 

At  no  time  is  California  so  beautiful  as  in  the  month  of 
June.  De  la  Vega's  wild  spirit  and  savage  purpose  were 
dormant  for  the  moment  as  he  rode  down  the  valley  toward 
the  mission.  The  hills  were  like  gold,  like  mammoth  fawns 
veiled  with  violet  mist,  like  rich  tan  velvet.  Afar,  bare  blue 
steeps  were  pink  in  their  chasms,  brown  on  their  spurs. 
The  dark  yellow  fields  were  as  if  thick  with  gold-dust ;  the 
pale  mustard  was  a  waving  yellow  sea.  Not  a  tree  marred 
the  smooth  hills.  The  earth  sent  forth  a  perfume  of  its  own. 
Below  the  plateau  from  which  rose  the  white  walls  of  the 
mission  was  a  wide  field  of  bright  green  corn  rising  against 
the  blue  sky. 

The  padres  in  their  brown  hooded  robes  came  out  upon 
the  long  corridor  of  the  mission  and  welcomed  the  traveler. 
Their  lands  had  gone  from  them,  their  mission  was  crumb- 
ling, but  the  spirit  of  hospitality  lingered  there  still.  They 
laid  meat  and  fruit  and  drink  on  a  table  beneath  the 
arches,  then  sat  about  him  and  asked  him  eagerly  for  news 
of  the  day.  Was  it  true  that  the  United  States  of  America 
were  at  war  with  Mexico,  or  about  to  be  ?  True  that  their 
beloved  flag  might  fall,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  an 
insolent  invader  rise  above  the  fort  of  Monterey? 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        179 

De  la  Vega  recounted  the  meager  and  conflicting  rumors 
which  had  reached  California,  but,  not  being  a  prophet, 
could  not  tell  them  that  they  would  be  the  first  to  see  the 
red-white-and-blue  fluttering  on  the  mountain  before 
them.  He  refused  to  rest  more  than  an  hour,  but  mounted 
the  fresh  horse  the  padres  gave  him  and  went  his  way, 
riding  hard  and  relentlessly,  like  all  Calif ornians. 

He  sped  onward  through  the  long  hot  day,  leaving  the 
hills  for  the  marshes  and  a  long  stretch  of  ugly  country, 
traversing  the  beautiful  San  Antonio  Valley  in  the  night, 
reaching  the  Mission  of  San  Miguel  at  dawn,  resting  there 
for  a  few  hours.  That  night  he  slept  at  a  hospitable  ranch- 
house  in  the  park-like  valley  of  Paso  des  Robles,  a  grim 
silent  figure  amongst  gay-hearted  people  who  delighted  to 
welcome  him.  The  early  morning  found  him  among  the 
chrome  hills ;  and  at  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Obispo  the 
good  padres  gave  him  breakfast.  The  little  valley,  round 
as  a  well,  its  bare  hills  red  and  brown,  gray  and  pink, 
violet  and  black,  from  fire,  sloping  steeply  from  a  dizzy 
height,  impressed  him  with  a  sense  of  being  prisoned  in  an 
enchanted  vale  where  no  message  of  the  outer  world  could 
come,  and  he  hastened  on  his  way. 

Absorbed  as  he  was,  he  felt  the  beauty  he  fled  past.  A 
line  of  golden  hills  lay  against  sharp  blue  peaks.  A  tower- 
ing mass  of  gray  rocks  had  been  cut  and  lashed  by  wind 
and  water,  earthquake  and  fire,  into  the  semblance  of  a 
massive  castle,  still  warlike  in  its  ruin.  He  slept  for  a  few 
hours  that  night  in  the  Mission  of  Santa  Ynes,  and  was 
high  in  the  Santa  Barbara  Mountains  at  the  next  noon. 
For  brief  whiles  he  forgot  his  journey's  purpose  as  his  horse 
climbed  slowly  up  the  steep  trails,  knocking  the  loose 
stones  down  a  thousand  feet  and  more  upon  a  roof  of  tree- 
tops  which  looked  like  stunted  brush.  Those  gigantic 
masses  of  immense  stones,  each  wearing  a  semblance  to  the 
face  of  man  or  beast ;  those  awful  chasms  and  stupendous 


180  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

heights,  densely  wooded,  bare,  and  many-hued,  rising 
above,  beyond,  peak  upon  peak,  cutting  through  the  visible 
atmosphere  —  was  there  no  end  ?  He  turned  in  his  saddle 
and  looked  over  low  peaks  and  canons,  rivers  and  abysms, 
black  peaks  smiting  the  fiery  blue,  far,  far,  to  the  dim 
azure  mountains  on  the  horizon. 

"Mother  of  God !"  he  thought.  "No  wonder  California 
still  shakes !  I  would  I  could  have  stood  upon  a  star  and 
beheld  the  awful  throes  of  this  country's  birth."  And  then 
his  horse  reared  between  the  sharp  spurs  and  galloped  on. 

He  avoided  the  Mission  of  Santa  Barbara,  resting  at  a 
rancho  outside  the  town.  In  the  morning,  supplied  as  usual 
with  a  fresh  horse,  he  fled  onward,  with  the  ocean  at  his 
right,  its  splendid  roar  in  his  ears.  The  cliffs  towered  high 
above  him ;  he  saw  no  man's  face  for  hours  together ;  but 
his  thoughts  companioned  him,  savage  and  sinister  shapes 
whirling  about  the  figure  of  a  woman.  On,  on,  sleeping 
at  ranches  or  missions,  meeting  hospitality  everywhere, 
avoiding  Los  Angeles,  keeping  close  to  the  ponderous 
ocean,  he  left  civilization  behind  him  at  last,  and  with  an 
Indian  guide  entered  upon  that  desert  of  mountain-tops, 
Baja  California. 

Rapid  traveling  was  not  possible  here.  There  were  no 
valleys  worthy  the  name.  The  sharp  peaks,  multiplying 
mile  after  mile,  were  like  teeth  of  gigantic  rakes,  black  and 
bare.  A  wilderness  of  mountain-tops,  desolate  as  eternity, 
arid,  parched,  baked  by  the  awful  heat,  the  silence  never 
broken  by  the  cry  of  a  bird,  a  hut  rarely  breaking  the  barren 
monotony,  only  an  infrequent  spring  to  save  from  death. 
It  was  almost  impossible  to  get  food  or  fresh  horses.  Many 
a  night  De  la  Vega  and  his  stoical  guide  slept  beneath  a 
cactus,  or  in  the  mocking  bed  of  a  creek.  The  mustangs  he 
managed  to  lasso  were  almost  unridable,  and  would  have 
bucked  to  death  any  but  a  Calif ornian.  Sometimes  he  lived 
on  cactus  fruit  and  the  dried  meat  he  had  brought  with 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        181 

him ;  occasionally  he  shot  a  rabbit.  Again  he  had  but  the 
flesh  of  the  rattlesnake  roasted  over  coals.  But  honey-dew 
was  on  the  leaves. 

He  avoided  the  beaten  trail,  and  cut  his  way  through 
naked  bushes  spiked  with  thorns,  and  through  groves  of 
cacti  miles  in  length.  When  the  thick  fog  rolled  up  from 
the  ocean  he  had  to  sit  inactive  on  the  rocks,  or  lose  his 
way.  A  furious  storm  dashed  him  against  a  boulder,  break- 
ing his  mustang's  leg;  then  a  torrent,  rising  like  a  tidal 
wave,  thundered  down  the  gulch,  and  catching  him  on 
its  crest,  flung  him  upon  a  tree  of  thorns.  When  dawn 
came  he  found  his  guide  dead.  He  cursed  his  luck,  and 
went  on. 

Lassoing  another  mustang,  he  pushed  forward,  having  a 
general  idea  of  the  direction  he  should  take.  It  was  a  week 
before  he  reached  Loreto,  a  week  of  loneliness,  hunger, 
thirst,  and  torrid  monotony.  A  week,  too,  of  thought  and 
bitterness  of  spirit.  In  spite  of  his  love,  which  never  cooled, 
and  his  courage,  which  never  quailed,  Nature,  in  her  guise 
of  foul  and  crooked  hag,  mocked  at  earthly  happiness,  at 
human  hope,  at  youth  and  passion. 

If  he  had  not  spent  his  life  in  the  saddle,  he  would  have 
been  worn  out  when  he  finally  reached  Loreto,  late  one 
night.  As  it  was,  he  slept  in  a  hut  until  the  following  after- 
noon. Then  he  took  a  long  swim  in  the  bay,  and,  later, 
sauntered  through  the  town. 

The  forlorn  little  city  was  hardly  more  than  a  collection 
of  Indians'  huts  about  a  church  in  a  sandy  waste.  No 
longer  the  capital,  even  the  barracks  were  toppling.  When 
De  la  Vega  entered  the  mission,  not  a  white  man  but  the 
padre  and  his  assistant  was  in  it ;  the  building  was  thronged 
with  Indian  worshipers.  The  mission,  although  the  first 
built  in  California,  was  in  a  fair  state  of  preservation.  The 
Stations  in  their  battered  frames  were  mellow  and  distinct. 
The  gold  still  gleamed  in  the  vestments  of  the  padre. 


182  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

For  a  few  moments  De  la  Vega  dared  not  raise  his  eyes 
to  the  Lady  of  Loreto,  standing  aloft  in  the  dull  blaze  of 
adamantine  candles.  When  he  did,  he  rose  suddenly  from 
his  knees  and  left  the  mission.  The  pearls  were  there. 

It  took  him  but  a  short  time  to  gain  the  confidence  of  the 
priest  and  the  little  population.  He  offered  no  explanation 
for  his  coming,  beyond  the  curiosity  of  the  traveler.  The 
padre  gave  him  a  room  in  the  mission,  and  spent  every  hour 
he  could  spare  with  the  brilliant  stranger.  At  night  he 
thanked  God  for  the  sudden  oasis  in  his  life's  desolation. 
The  Indians  soon  grew  accustomed  to  the  lonely  figure 
wandering  about  the  sand  plains,  or  kneeling  for  hours 
together  before  the  altar  in  the  church.  And  whom  their 
padre  trusted  was  to  them  as  sacred  and  impersonal  as  the 
wooden  saints  of  their  religion. 

IV 

THE  midnight  stars  watched  over  the  mission.  Framed  by 
the  cross-shaped  window  sunk  deep  in  the  adobe  wall  above 
the  entrance,  a  mass  of  them  assumed  the  form  of  the 
crucifix,  throwing  a  golden  trail  full  upon  the  Lady  of 
Loreto,  proud  in  her  shining  pearls.  The  long  narrow  body 
of  the  church  seemed  to  have  swallowed  the  shadows  of  the 
ages,  and  to  yawn  for  more. 

De  la  Vega,  booted  and  spurred,  his  scrape  folded  about 
him,  his  sombrero  on  his  head,  opened  the  sacristy  door  and 
entered  the  church.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  sack;  in  the 
other,  a  candle  sputtering  in  a  bottle.  He  walked  deliber- 
ately to  the  foot  of  the  altar.  In  spite  of  his  intrepid  spirit, 
he  stood  appalled  for  a  moment  as  he  saw  the  dim  radiance 
enveloping  the  Lady  of  Loreto.  He  scowled  over  his  shoul- 
der at  the  menacing  emblem  of  redemption  and  crossed 
himself.  But  had  it  been  the  finger  of  God,  the  face  of 
Ysabel  would  have  shone  between  He  extinguished  his 
candle,  and  swinging  himself  to  the  top  of  the  altar  plucked 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        183 

the  pearls  from  the  Virgin's  gown  and  dropped  them  into 
the  sack.  His  hand  trembled  a  little,  but  he  held  his  will 
between  his  teeth. 

How  quiet  it  was  !  The  waves  flung  themselves  upon  the 
shore  with  the  sullen  wrath  of  impotence.  A  sea-gull 
screamed  now  and  again,  an  exclamation-point  in  the  si- 
lence above  the  waters.  Suddenly  De  la  Vega  shook  from 
head  to  foot,  and  snatched  the  knife  from  his  belt.  A  faint 
creaking  echoed  through  the  hollow  church.  He  strained 
his  ears,  holding  his  breath  until  his  chest  collapsed  with 
the  shock  of  outrushing  air.  But  the  sound  was  not  re- 
peated, and  he  concluded  that  it  had  been  but  a  vibration 
of  his  nerves.  He  glanced  to  the  window  above  the  doors. 
The  stars  in  it  were  no  longer  visible ;  they  had  melted  into 
bars  of  flame.  The  sweat  stood  cold  on  his  face,  but  he 
went  on  with  his  work. 

A  rope  of  pearls,  cunningly  strung  together  with  strands 
of  seaweed,  was  wound  about  the  Virgin's  right  arm.  De  la 
Vega  was  too  nervous  to  uncoil  it;  he  held  the  sack  be- 
neath, and  severed  the  strands  with  his  knife.  As  he  fin- 
ished, and  was  about  to  stoop  and  cut  loose  the  pearls  from 
the  hem  of  the  Virgin's  gown,  he  uttered  a  hoarse  cry  and 
stood  rigid.  A  cowled  head,  with  thin  lips  drawn  over  yel- 
low teeth,  furious  eyes  burning  deep  in  withered  sockets, 
projected  on  its  long  neck  from  the  Virgin's  right  and  con- 
fronted him.  The  body  was  unseen. 

"Thief!"  hissed  the  priest.  "Dog!  Thou  wouldst  rob 
the  Church?  Accursed!  Accursed!" 

There  was  not  one  moment  for  hesitation,  one  alterna- 
tive. Before  the  priest  could  complete  his  malediction. 
De  la  Vega's  knife  had  flashed  through  the  fire  of  the  cross, 
The  priest  leaped,  screeching,  then  rolled  over  and  down 
and  rebounded  from  the  railing  of  the  sanctuary. 


184  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

VI 

THE  corridor  of  the  Custom-House  had  been  enclosed  to 
protect  the  musicians  and  supper  table  from  the  wind  and 
fog.  The  storeroom  had  been  cleared,  the  floor  scrubbed, 
the  walls  hung  with  the  colors  of  Mexico.  All  in  honor  of 
Pio  Pico,  again  in  brief  exile  from  his  beloved  Los  Angeles. 
The  Governor,  blazing  with  diamonds,  stood  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  room  by  Dona  Modeste  Castro's  side.  About 
them  were  Castro  and  other  prominent  men  of  Monterey, 
all  talking  of  the  rumored  war  between  the  United  States 
and  Mexico  and  prophesying  various  results.  Neither  Pico 
nor  Castro  looked  amiable.  The  Governor  had  arrived  in 
the  morning  to  find  that  the  General  had  allowed  pas- 
quinades representing  His  Excellency  in  no  complimentary 
light  to  disfigure  the  streets  of  Monterey.  Castro,  when 
taken  to  task,  had  replied  haughtily  that  it  was  the  Gover- 
nor's place  to  look  after  his  own  dignity;  he,  the  Com- 
andante-General  of  the  army  of  the  Californias,  had 
more  important  matters  to  attend  to.  The  result  had  been 
a  furious  war  of  words,  ending  in  a  lame  peace. 

"Tell  us,  Excellency,"  said  Jos6  Abrigo,  "what  will  be 
the  outcome  ?  " 

"The  Americans  can  have  us  if  they  wish,"  said  Pio  Pico 
bitterly.  "We  cannot  prevent." 

"Never!"  cried  Castro.  "What?  We  cannot  protect 
ourselves  against  the  invasion  of  bandoleros?  Do  you 
forget  what  blood  stings  the  veins  of  the  Calif ornian?  A 
Spaniard  stand  with  folded  arms  and  see  his  country 
plucked  from  him !  Oh,  sacrilege !  They  will  never  have 
our  California^  while  a  Californian  lives  to  cut  them 
down!" 

"Bravo !  Bravo !"  cried  many  voices. 

"I  tell  you—"  began  Pio  Pico. 

But  Dona  Modeste  interrupted  him.  "No  more  talk  of 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO        185 

war  to-night,'*  she  said  peremptorily.  "Where  is  Ysabel  ? " 

"She  sent  me  word  by  Doila  Juana  that  she  could  not 
make  herself  ready  in  time  to  come  with  me,  but  would 
follow  with  my  good  friend,  Don  Antonio,  who  of  course 
had  to  wait  for  her.  Her  gown  was  not  finished,  I  believe. 
I  think  she  had  done  something  naughty,  and  Dona  Juana 
had  tried  to  punish  her,  but  had  not  succeeded.  The  old 
lady  looked  very  sad.  Ah,  here  is  Dona  Ysabel  now !" 

"How  lovely  she  is !"  said  Dona  Modeste.  "I  think  — 
What!  what!—" 

"Dios  de  mi  alma!"  exclaimed  Pio  Pico,  "where  did  she 
get  those  pearls  ?  " 

The  crowd  near  the  door  had  parted,  and  Ysabel  entered 
on  the  arm  of  her  uncle.  Don  Antonio's  form  was  bent,  and 
she  looked  taller  by  contrast.  His  thin  sharp  profile  was 
outlined  against  her  white  neck,  bared  for  the  first  time  to 
the  eyes  of  Monterey.  Her  shawl  had  just  been  laid  aside, 
and  he  was  near-sighted  and  did  not  notice  the  pearls. 

She  had  sewn  them  all  over  the  front  of  her  white  silk 
gown.  She  had  wound  them  in  the  black  coils  of  her  hair. 
They  wreathed  her  neck  and  roped  her  arms.  Never  had 
she  looked  so  beautiful.  Her  great  green  eyes  were  as 
radiant  as  spring.  Her  lips  were  redder  than  blood.  A  pink 
flame  burned  in  her  oval  cheeks.  Her  head  moved  like  a 
Californian  lily  on  its  stalk.  No  Montereno  would  ever 
forget  her. 

"El  Son!"  cried  the  young  men,  with  one  accord.  Her 
magnificent  beauty  extinguished  every  other  woman  in  the 
room.  She  must  not  hide  her  light  in  the  contradanza. 
She  must  madden  all  eyes  at  once. 

Ysabel  bent  her  head  and  glided  to  the  middle  of  the 
room.  The  other  women  moved  back,  their  white  gowns 
like  a  snowbank  against  the  garish  walls.  The  thin  sweet 
music  of  the  instruments  rose  above  the  boom  of  the  tide. 
Ysabel  lifted  her  dress  with  curving  arms,  displaying 


186  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

arched  feet  clad  in  flesh-colored  stockings  and  white  slip- 
pers, and  danced  El  Son. 

Her  little  feet  tapped  time  to  the  music;  she  whirled 
her  body  with  utmost  grace,  holding  her  head  so  motionless 
that  she  could  have  balanced  a  glass  of  water  upon  it.  She 
was  inspired  that  night;  and  when,  in  the  midst  of  the 
dance,  De  la  Vega  entered  the  room,  a  sort  of  madness  pos- 
sessed her.  She  invented  new  figures.  She  glided  back  and 
forth,  bending  and  swaying  and  doubling  until  to  the  eyes 
of  her  bewildered  admirers  the  outlines  of  her  lovely  body 
were  gone.  Even  the  women  shouted  their  approval,  and 
the  men  went  wild.  They  pulled  their  pockets  inside  out 
and  flung  handfuls  of  gold  at  her  feet.  Those  who  had  only 
silver  cursed  their  fate,  but  snatched  the  watches  from  their 
pockets,  the  rings  from  their  fingers,  and  hurled  them  at 
her  with  shouts  and  cheers.  They  tore  the  lace  ruffles  from 
their  shirts ;  they  rushed  to  the  next  room  and  ripped  the 
silver  eagles  from  their  hats.  Even  Pio  Pico  flung  one  of  his 
golden  ropes  at  her  feet,  a  hot  blaze  in  his  old  ugly  face,  as 
he  cried: 
t  "  Brava  !  Brava !  Thou  Star  of  Monterey  J " 

Guido  Cabanares,  desperate  at  having  nothing  more  to 
sacrifice  to  his  idol,  sprang  upon  a  chair,  and  was  about  to 
tear  down  the  Mexican  flag,  when  the  music  stopped  with  a 
crash,  as  if  musicians  and  instruments  had  been  overturned, 
and  a  figure  leaped  into  the  room. 

The  women  uttered  a  loud  cry  and  crossed  themselves. 
Even  the  men  fell  back.  YsabePs  swaying  body  trembled 
and  became  rigid.  De  la  Vega,  who  had  watched  her  with 
folded  arms,  too  entranced  to  offer  her  anything  but  the 
love  that  shook  him,  turned  livid  to  his  throat.  A  friar,  his 
hood  fallen  back  from  his  stubbled  head,  his  brown  habit 
stiff  with  dirt,  smelling,  reeling  with  fatigue,  stood  amongst 
them.  His  eyes  were  deep  in  his  ashen  face.  They  rolled 
about  the  room  until  they  met  De  la  Vega's. 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETO  187 

General  Castro  came  hastily  forward.  "What  does  this 
mean  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  do  you  wish  ?  " 

The  friar  raised  his  arm,  and  pointed  his  shaking  finger 
at  De  la  Vega. 

"Kill  him !"  he  said  in  a  loud  hoarse  whisper.  "He  has 
desecrated  the  Mother  of  God !" 

Every  caballero  in  the  room  turned  upon  De  la  Vega  with 
furious  satisfaction.  Ysabel  had  quickened  their  blood, 
and  they  were  willing  to  cool  it  in  vengeance  on  the  man  of 
whom  they  still  were  jealous,  and  whom  they  suspected  of 
having  brought  the  wondrous  pearls  which  covered  their 
Favorita  to-night. 

"What  ?  What  ?"  they  cried  eagerly.  "Has  he  done  this 
thing?" 

"He  has  robbed  the  Church.  He  has  stripped  the  Blessed 
Virgin  of  her  jewels.  He  —  has  —  murdered  —  a  —  priest 
of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church." 

Horror  stayed  them  for  a  moment,  and  then  they  rushed 
at  De  la  Vega.  "He  does  not  deny  it !"  they  cried.  "Is  it 
true  ?  Is  it  true  ? "  and  they  surged  about  him  hot  with 
menace. 

"It  is  quite  true,"  said  De  la  Vega,  coldly.  "I  plundered 
the  shrine  of  Loreto  and  murdered  its  priest." 

The  women  panted  and  gasped ;  for  a  moment  even  the 
men  were  stunned,  and  in  that  moment  an  ominous  sound 
mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  surf.  Before  the  respite  was 
over  Ysabel  had  reached  his  side. 

"He  did  it  for  me !"  she  cried,  in  her  clear  triumphant 
voice.  "For  me !  And  although  you  kill  us  both,  I  am  the 
proudest  woman  in  all  the  Californias,  and  I  love  him." 

"Good!"  cried  Castro,  and  he  placed  himself  before 
them.  "Stand  back,  every  one  of  you.  What?  Are  you 
barbarians,  Indians,  that  you  would  do  violence  to  a  guest 
in  your  town  ?  What  if  he  has  committed  a  crime  ?  Is  he 
not  one  of  you,  then,  that  you  offer  him  blood  instead  of 


188  AMERICAN  TRADITIONS 

protection?  Where  is  your  pride  of  caste?  your  hospital- 
ity ?  Oh,  perfidy !  Fall  back,  and  leave  the  guest  of  your 
capital  to  those  who  are  compelled  to  judge  him." 

The  caballeros  shrank  back,  sullen  but  abashed.  He 
had  touched  the  quick  of  their  pride.  - 

"Never  mind!"  cried  the  friar.  "You  cannot  protect 
him  from  that.  Listen!" 

Had  the  bay  rison  about  the  Custom-House  ? 

"What  is  that?"  demanded  Castro,  sharply. 

"The  poor  of  Monterey;  those  who  love  their  Cross 
better  than  the  aristocrats  love  their  caste.  They  know." 

De  la  Vega  caught  Ysabel  in  his  arms  and  dashed  across 
the  room  and  corridor.  His  knife  cut  a  long  rift  in  the  can- 
vas, and  in  a  moment  they  stood  upon  the  rocks.  The 
shrieking  crowd  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  Custom  House. 

"Marcos !"  he  called  to  his  boatman,  "Marcos  !" 

No  answer  came  but  the  waves  tugging  at  the  rocks  not 
two  feet  below  them.  He  could  see  nothing.  The  fog  was 
thick  as  night. 

"He  is  not  here,  Ysabel.  We  must  swim.  Anything  but 
to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  those  wild-cats.  Are  you  afraid?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

He  folded  her  closely  with  one  arm,  and  felt  with  his  foot 
for  the  edge  of  the  rocks.  A  wild  roar  came  from  behind. 
A  dozen  pistols  were  fired  into  the  air.  De  la  Vega  reeled 
suddenly.  "  I  am  shot,  Ysabel,"  he  said,  his  knees  bending. 
"Not  in  this  world,  my  love !" 

She  wound  her  arms  about  him,  and  dragging  him  to  the 
brow  of  the  rocks,  hurled  herself  outward,  carrying  him 
with  her.  The  waves  tossed  them  on  high,  flung  them 
against  the  rocks  and  ground  them  there,  playing  with 
them  like  a  lion  with  its  victim,  then  buried  them. 


AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 
STORIES  OF  THE  SPIRIT  OF  PLACE 


Within  her  face  the  rose 

Of  Allegheny  dawns; 

Limbed  with  Alaskan  snows, 

Floridian  starlight  in  her  eye*. . . 

And  in  her  hair 

The  rapture  of  her  rivers. . . 

Behold  her  where, 

Around  her  radiant  youth. 

The  spirits  of  the  cataracts  and  plains, 

The  genii  of  the  floods  and  forests,  meet 

In  rainbow  mists  circling  her  brow  and  feet. 

MADISON  CAWEIN,  Kentucky  Poem* 


THE  WINDIGO1 
BY  MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 

THE  cry  of  those  rapids  in  Sainte  Marie's  River  called  the 
Sault  could  be  heard  at  all  hours  through  the  settlement  on 
the  rising  shore  and  into  the  forest  beyond.  Three  quarters 
of  a  mile  of  frothing  billows,  like  some  colossal  instrument, 
never  ceased  playing  music  down  an  inclined  channel  until 
the  trance  of  winter  locked  it  up.  At  August  dusk,  when  all 
that  shaggy  world  was  sinking  to  darkness,  the  gushing 
monotone  became  very  distinct. 

Louizon  Cadotte  and  his  father's  young  seignior,  Jacques 
de  Repentigny,  stepped  from  a  birch  canoe  on  the  bank 
near  the  fort,  two  Chippewa  Indians  following  with  their 
game.  Hunting  furnished  no  small  addition  to  the  food- 
supply  of  the  settlement,  for  the  English  conquest  had 
brought  about  scarcity  at  this  as  well  as  other  Western 
posts.  Peace  was  declared  in  Europe ;  but  soldiers  on  the 
frontier,  waiting  orders  to  march  out  at  any  time,  were  not 
abundantly  supplied  with  stores,  and  they  let  season  after 
season  go  by,  reluctant  to  put  in  harvests  which  might  be 
reaped  by  their  successors. 

Jaeques  was  barely  nineteen,  and  Louizon  was  con- 
siderably older.  But  the  Repentignys  had  gone  back  to 
France  after  the  fall  of  Quebec ;  and  five  years  of  European 
life  had  matured  the  young  seignior  as  decades  of  border 
experience  would  never  mature  his  half-breed  tenant.  Yet 
Louizon  was  a  fine  dark-skinned  fellow,  well  made  for  one 
of  short  stature.  He  trod  close  by  his  tall  superior  with 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Chase  of  Saint-Cattin,  and  Other 
Stories  of  the  French  in  the  New  World,  by  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood. 
Copyright  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


193  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

visible  fondness ;  enjoying  this  spectacle  of  a  man  the  like 
of  whom  he  had  not  seen  on  the  frontier. 

Jacques  looked  back,  as  he  walked,  at  the  long  zigzag 
shadows  on  the  river.  Forest  fire  in  the  distance  showed  a 
leaning  column,  black  at  base,  pearl-colored  in  the  prim- 
rose air,  like  smoke  from  some  gigantic  altar.  He  had  seen 
islands  in  the  lake  under  which  the  sky  seemed  to  slip, 
throwing  them  above  the  horizon  in  mirage,  and  trees 
standing  like  detached  bushes  on  a  world  rim  of  water. 
The  Sainte  Marie  River  was  a  beautiful  light  green  in  color, 
and  sunset  and  twilight  played  upon  it  all  the  miracles  of 
change. 

"I  wish  my  father  had  never  left  this  country,"  said 
young  Repentigny,  feeling  that  spell  cast  by  the  wilderness. 
"Here  is  his  place.  He  should  have  withdrawn  to  the  Sault, 
and  accommodated  himself  to  the  English,  instead  of  re- 
turning to  France.  The  service  in  other  parts  of  the  world 
does  not  suit  him.  Plenty  of  good  men  have  held  to 
Canada  and  their  honor  also." 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  Louizon.  "The  English  cannot  be 
got  rid  of.  For  my  part,  I  shall  be  glad  when  this  post 
changes  hands.  I  am  sick  of  our  officers." 

He  scowled  with  open  resentment.  The  seigniory  house 
faced  the  parade  ground,  and  they  could  see  against  its 
large  low  mass,  lounging  on  the  gallery,  one  each  side  of  a 
window,  the  white  uniforms  of  two  French  soldiers.  The 
window  sashes,  screened  by  small  curtains  across  the  mid- 
dle, were  swung  into  the  room ;  and  Louizon's  wife  leaned 
on  her  elbows  across  the  sill,  the  rosy  atmosphere  of  his  own 
fire  projecting  to  view  every  ring  of  her  bewitching  hair, 
and  even  her  long  eyelashes  as  she  turned  her  gaze  from 
side  to  side. 

It  was  so  dark,  and  the  object  of  their  regard  was  so 
bright,  that  these  buzzing  bees  of  Frenchmen  did  not  see 
her  husband  until  he  ran  up  the  steps  facing  them.  Both 


THE  WINDIGO  193 

of  them  greeted  him  heartily.  He  felt  it  a  peculiar  indignity 
that  his  wife's  danglers  forever  passed  their  good-will  on  to 
him ;  and  he  left  them  in  the  common  hall,  with  his  father 
and  the  young  seignior,  and  the  two  or  three  Indians  who 
congregated  there  every  evening  to  ask  for  presents  or  to 
smoke. 

Louizon's  wife  met  him  in  the  middle  of  the  broad  low 
apartment  where  he  had  been  so  proud  to  introduce  her  as  a 
bride,  and  turned  her  cheek  to  be  kissed.  She  was  not  fond 
of  having  her  lips  touched.  Her  hazel-colored  hair  was  per- 
fumed. She  was  so  supple  and  exquisite,  so  dimpled  and 
aggravating,  that  the  Chippewa  in  him  longed  to  take  her 
by  the  scalp-lock  of  her  light  head ;  but  the  Frenchman 
bestowed  the  salute.  Louizon  had  married  the  prettiest 
woman  in  the  settlement.  Life  overflowed  in  her,  so  that 
her  presence  spread  animation.  Both  men  and  women  paid 
homage  to  her.  Her  very  mother-in-law  was  her  slave. 
And  this  was  the  stranger  spectacle  because  Madame 
Cadotte  the  senior,  though  born  a  Chippewa,  did  not 
easily  make  herself  subservient  to  anybody. 

The  time  had  been  when  Louizon  was  proud  of  any 
notice  this  siren  conferred  on  him.  But  so  exacting  and 
tyrannical  is  the  nature  of  man  that  when  he  got  her  he 
wanted  to  keep  her  entirely  to  himself.  From  his  Chip- 
pewa mother,  who,  though  treated  with  deference,  had 
never  dared  to  disobey  his  father,  he  inherited  a  fond  and 
jealous  nature;  and  his  beautiful  wife  chafed  it.  Young 
Repentigny  saw  that  she  was  like  a  Parisian.  But  Louizon 
felt  that  she  was  a  spirit  too  fine  and  tantalizing  for  him 
to  grasp,  and  she  had  him  in  her  power. 

He  hung  his  powder-horn  behind  the  door,  and  stepped 
upon  a  stool  to  put  his  gun  on  its  rack  above  the  fireplace. 
The  fire  showed  his  round  figure,  short  but  well  muscled, 
and  the  boyish  petulance  of  his  shaven  lip.  The  sun  shone 
hot  upon  the  Sault  of  an  August  noon,  but  morning  and 


194  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

night  were  cool,  and  a  blaze  was  usually  kept  in  the  chim- 
ney. 

"  You  found  plenty  of  game  ?  "  said  his  wife ;  and  it  was 
one  of  this  woman's  wickedest  charms  that  she  could  be  so 
interested  in  her  companion  of  the  moment. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  scowling  more,  and  thinking  of 
the  brace  on  the  gallery  whom  he  had  not  shot,  but 
wished  to. 

She  laughed  at  him. 

"Archange  Cadotte,"  said  Louizon,  turning  around  on 
the  stool  before  he  descended ;  and  she  spread  out  her  skirts, 
taking  two  dancing  steps  to  indicate  that  she  heard  him. 
"How  long  am  I  to  be  mortified  by  your  conduct  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Repentigny?" 

"Oh  —  Monsieur  de  Repentigny.  It  is  now  that  boy 
from  France,  at  whom  I  have  never  looked." 

"The  man  I  would  have  you  look  at,  madame,  you 
scarcely  notice." 

"Why  should  I  notice  him?  He  pays  little  attention  to 
me." 

"Ah,  he  is  not  one  of  your  danglers,  madame.  He  would 
not  look  at  another  man's  wife.  He  has  had  trouble  him- 
self." 

"  So  will  you  have  if  you  scorch  the  backs  of  your  legs," 
observed  Archange. 

Louizon  stood  obstinately  on  the  stool  and  ignored  the 
heat.  He  was  hi  the  act  of  stepping  down,  but  he  checked  it 
as  she  spoke. 

"Monsieur  de  Repentigny  came  back  to  this  country  to 
marry  a  young  English  lady  of  Quebec.  He  thinks  of  her, 
not  of  you." 

"I  am  sure  he  is  welcome,"  murmured  Archange.  "But 
it  seems  the  young  English  lady  prefers  to  stay  in  Quebec." 

"She  never  looked  at  any  other  man,  madame.  She  is 
dead." 


THE  WINDIGO  195 

"No  wonder.  I  should  be  dead,  too,  if  I  had  looked  at 
one  stupid  man  all  my  life." 

Louizon's  eyes  sparkled.  "Madame,  I  will  have  you 
know  that  the  seignior  of  Sault  Sainte  Marie  is  entitled  to 
your  homage." 

"Monsieur,  I  will  have  you  know  that  I  do  not  pay 
homage  to  any  man." 

"You,  Archange  Cadotte?  You  are  in  love  with  a  new 
man  every  day." 

"  Not  in  the  least,  monsieur.  I  only  desire  to  have  a  new 
man  in  love  with  me  every  day." 

Her  mischievous  mouth  was  a  scarlet  button  in  her 
face,  and  Louizon  leaped  to  the  floor,  and  kicked  the  stool 
across  the  room. 

"The  devil  himself  is  no  match  at  all  for  you  !" 

"But  I  married  him  before  I  knew  that,"  returned 
Archange ;  and  Louizon  grinned  in  his  wrath. 

"I  don't  like  such  women." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  Men  always  like  women  whom  they 
cannot  chain." 

"I  have  never  tried  to  chain  you."  Her  husband  ap- 
proached, shaking  his  finger  at  her.  "There  is  not  another 
woman  in  the  settlement  who  has  her  way  as  you  have. 
And  see  how  you  treat  me  !" 

"How  do  I  treat  you  ?  "  inquired  Archange,  sitting  down 
and  resigning  herself  to  statistics. 

"Sainte  Marie  !  Saint  Joseph  !"  shouted  the  Frenchman. 
"How  does  she  treat  me  !  And  every  man  in  the  seigniory 
dangling  at  her  apron  string  !" 

"You  are  mistaken.  There  is  the  young  seignior;  and 
there  is  the  new  English  commandant,  who  must  be  now 
within  the  seigniory,  for  they  expect  him  at  the  post  to- 
morrow morning.  It  is  all  the  same  :  if  I  look  at  a  man  you 
are  furious,  and  if  I  refuse  to  look  at  him  you  are  more 
furious  still." 


196  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

Loukon  felt  that  inward  breaking  up  which  proved  to 
him  that  he  could  not  stand  before  the  tongue  of  this 
woman.  Groping  for  expression,  he  declared : 

"  If  thou  wert  sickly  or  blind,  I  would  be  just  as  good  to 
thee  as  when  thou  wert  a  bride.  I  am  not  the  kind  that 
changes  if  a  woman  loses  her  fine  looks." 

"No  doubt  you  would  like  to  see  me  with  the  smallpox," 
suggested  Archange.  "But  it  is  never  best  to  try  a  man 
too  far." 

"You  try  me  too  far  —  let  me  tell  you  that.  But  you 
shall  try  me  no  further." 

The  Indian  appeared  distinctly  on  his  softer  French 
features,  as  one  picture  may  be  stamped  over  another. 

"Smoke  a  pipe,  Louizon,"  urged  the  thorn  in  his  flesh. 
"You  are  always  so  much  more  agreeable  when  your  mouth 
is  stopped." 

But  he  left  the  room  without  looking  at  her  again.  Ar- 
change remarked  to  herself  that  he  would  be  better-natured 
when  his  mother  had  given  him  his  supper;  and  she 
yawned,  smiling  at  the  maladroit  creatures  whom  she  made 
her  sport.  Her  husband  was  the  best  young  man  in  the 
settlement.  She  was  entirely  satisfied  with  him,  and  grate- 
ful to  him  for  taking  the  orphan  niece  of  a  poor  post  com- 
mandant, without  prospects  since  the  conquest,  and  giving 
her  sumptuous  quarters  and  comparative  wealth ;  but  she 
could  not  forbear  amusing  herself  with  his  masculine  weak- 
nesses. 

Archange  was  by  no  means  a  slave  in  the  frontier  house- 
hold. She  did  not  spin,  or  draw  water,  or  tend  the  oven. 
Her  mother-in-law,  Madame  Cadotte,  had  a  hold  on  peren- 
nially destitute  Chippewa  women  who  could  be  made  to 
work  for  longer  or  shorter  periods  in  a  Frenchman's  kitchen 
or  loom-house  instead  of  with  savage  implements.  Ar- 
change's  bed  had  ruffled  curtains,  and  her  pretty  dresses, 
carefully  folded,  filled  a  large  chest. 


THE  WINDIGO  197 

She  returned  to  the  high  window-sill,  and  watched  the 
purple  distances  growing  black.  She  could  smell  the  to- 
bacco the  men  were  smoking  in  the  open  hall,  and  hear 
their  voices.  Archange  knew  what  her  mother-in-law  was 
giving  the  young  seignior  and  Louizon  for  their  supper. 
She  could  fancy  the  officers  laying  down  their  pipes  to 
draw  to  the  board,  also,  for  the  Cadottes  kept  open  house 
all  the  year  round. 

The  thump  of  the  Indian  drum  was  added  to  the  deep 
melody  of  the  rapids.  There  were  always  a  few  lodges  of 
Chippewas  about  the  Sault.  When  the  trapping  season 
and  the  maple-sugar-making  were  over  and  his  profits 
drunk  up,  time  was  the  largest  possession  of  an  Indian.  He 
spent  it  around  the  door  of  his  French  brother,  ready  to 
fish  or  to  drink  whenever  invited.  If  no  one  cared  to  go  on 
the  river,  he  turned  to  his  hereditary  amusements.  Every 
night  that  the  rapids  were  void  of  torches  showing  where 
the  canoes  of  white  fishers  darted,  the  thump  of  the  Indian 
drum  and  the  yell  of  Indian  dancers  could  be  heard. 

Archange's  mind  was  running  on  the  new  English  garri- 
son who  were  said  to  be  so  near  taking  possession  of  the 
picketed  fort,  when  she  saw  something  red  on  the  parade 
ground.  The  figure  stood  erect  and  motionless,  gathering 
all  the  remaining  light  on  its  indistinct  coloring,  and 
Archange 's  heart  gave  a  leap  at  the  hint  of  a  military  man 
in  a  red  uniform.  She  was  all  alive,  like  a  whitefisher  cast- 
ing the  net  or  a  hunter  sighting  game.  It  was  Archange's 
nature,  without  even  taking  thought,  to  turn  her  head  on 
her  round  neck  so  that  the  illuminated  curls  would  show 
against  a  background  of  wall,  and  wreathe  her  half-bare 
arms  across  the  sill.  To  be  looked  at,  to  lure  and  tantalize, 
was  more  than  pastime.  It  was  a  woman's  chief  privilege. 
Archange  held  the  secret  conviction  that  the  priest  himself 
could  be  made  to  give  her  lighter  penances  by  an  angelic 
expression  she  could  assume.  It  is  convenient  to  have  large 


198  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

brown  eyes  and  the  trick  of  casting  them  sidewise  in  sweet 
distress. 

But  the  Chippewa  widow  came  in  earlier  than  usual  that 
evening,  being  anxious  to  go  back  to  the  lodges  to  watch 
the  dancing.  Archange  pushed  the  sashes  shut,  ready  for 
other  diversion,  and  Michel  Pensonneau  never  failed  to 
furnish  her  that.  The  little  boy  was  at  the  widow's  heels. 
Michel  was  an  orphan. 

"If  Archange  had  children,"  Madame  Cadotte  had  said 
to  Louizon,  "she  would  not  seek  other  amusement.  Take 
the  little  Pensonneau  lad  that  his  grandmother  can  hardly 
feed.  He  will  give  Archange  something  to  do." 

So  Louizon  brought  home  the  little  Pensonneau  lad. 
Archange  looked  at  him,  and  considered  that  here  was 
another  person  to  wait  on  her.  As  to  keeping  him  clean  and 
making  clothes  for  him,  they  might  as  well  have  expected 
her  to  train  the  sledge  dogs.  She  made  him  serve  her,  but 
for  mothering  he  had  to  go  to  Madame  Cadotte.  Yet  Ar- 
change far  outweighed  Madame  Cadotte  with  him.  The 
labors  put  upon  him  by  the  autocrat  of  the  house  were 
sweeter  than  mococks  full  of  maple  sugar  from  the  hand 
of  the  Chippewa  housekeeper.  At  first  Archange  would 
not  let  him  come  into  her  room.  She  dictated  to  him 
through  door  or  window.  But  when  he  grew  fat  with  good 
food  and  was  decently  clad  under  Madame  Cadotto's 
hand,  the  great  promotion  of  entering  that  sacred  apart- 
ment was  allowed  him.  Michel  came  in  whenever  he  could. 
It  was  his  nightly  habit  to  follow  the  Chippewa  widow 
there  after  supper,  and  watch  her  brush  Archange's  hair. 

Michel  stood  at  the  end  of  the  hearth  with  a  roll  of 
pagessanung,  or  plum-leather,  in  his  fist.  His  cheeks  had  a 
hard  garnered  redness  like  polished  apples.  The  Chippewa 
widow  set  her  husband  carefully  against  the  wall.  The 
husband  was  a  bundle  about  two  feet  long,  containing  her 
best  clothes  tied  up  in  her  dead  warrior's  sashes  and  rolled 


THE  WINDIGO  199 

in  a  piece  of  cloth.  His  arm-bands  and  his  necklace  of 
bear's-claws  appeared  at  the  top  as  a  grotesque  head. 
This  bundle  the  widow  was  obliged  to  carry  with  her  every- 
where. To  be  seen  without  it  was  a  disgrace,  until  that 
time  when  her  husband's  nearest  relations  should  take  it 
away  from  her  and  give  her  new  clothes,  thus  signifying 
that  she  had  mourned  long  enough  to  satisfy  them.  As  the 
husband's  relations  were  unable  to  cover  themselves,  the 
prospect  of  her  release  seemed  distant.  For  her  food  she 
was  glad  to  depend  on  her  labor  in  the  Cadotte  household. 
There  was  no  hunter  to  supply  her  lodge  now. 

The  widow  let  down  Ar change's  hair  and  began  to  brush 
it.  The  long  mass  was  too  much  for  its  owner  to  handle. 
It  spread  around  her  like  a  garment,  as  she  sat  on  her  chair, 
and  its  ends  touched  the  floor.  Michel  thought  there  was 
nothing  more  wonderful  in  the  world  than  this  glory  of 
hair,  its  rings  and  ripples  shining  in  the  firelight.  The 
widow's  jaws  worked  in  unobtrusive  rumination  on  a  piece 
of  pleasantly  bitter  fungus,  the  Indian  substitute  for 
quinine,  which  the  Chippewas  called  waubudone.  As  she 
consoled  herself  much  with  this  medicine,  and  her  many- 
syllabled  name  was  hard  to  pronounce,  Archange  called 
her  Waubudone,  an  offense  against  her  dignity  which  the 
widow  might  not  have  endured  from  anybody  else,  though 
she  bore  it  without  a  word  from  this  soft-haired  magnate. 

As  she  carefully  carded  the  mass  of  hair  lock  by  lock, 
thinking  it  an  unnecessary  nightly  labor,  the  restless  head 
under  her  hands  was  turned  towards  the  portable  husband. 
Archange  had  not  much  imagination,  but  to  her  the  thing 
was  uncanny.  She  repeated  what  she  said  every  night : 

"Do  stand  him  in  the  hall  and  let  him  smell  the  smoke, 
Waubudone." 

"No,"  refused  the  widow. 

"But  I  don't  want  him  in  my  bedroom.  You  are  not 
obliged  to  keep  that  thing  in  your  sight  all  the  time." 


200,  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

"Yes,"  said  the  widow. 

A  dialect  of  mingled  French  and  Chippewa  was  what 
they  spoke,  and  Michel  knew  enough  of  both  tongue  to 
follow  the  talk. 

"Are  they  never  going  to  take  him  from  you?  If  they 
don't  take  him  from  you  soon,  I  shall  go  to  the  lodges  and 
speak  to  his  people  about  it  myself." 

The  Chippewa  widow  usually  passed  over  this  threat 
in  silence ;  but,  threading  a  lock  with  the  comb,  she  now 
said : 

"Best  not  go  to  the  lodges  awhile." 

"  Why  ?  "  inquired  Archange.  "  Have  the  English  already 
arrived?  Is  the  tribe  dissatisfied?" 

"Don't  know  that." 

"Then  why  should  I  not  go  to  the  lodges?" 

"Windigo  at  the  Sault  now." 

Archange  wheeled  to  look  at  her  face.  The  widow  was 
unmoved.  She  was  little  older  than  Archange,  but  her 
features  showed  a  stoical  harshness  in  the  firelight.  Michel, 
who  often  went  to  the  lodges,  widened  his  mouth  and  forgot 
to  fill  it  with  plum-leather.  There  was  no  sweet  which 
Michel  loved  as  he  did  this  confection  of  wild  plums  and 
maple  sugar  boiled  down  and  spread  on  sheets  of  birch 
bark.  Madame  Cadotte  made  the  best  pagessanung  at  the 
Sault. 

"Look  at  the  boy,"  laughed  Archange.  "He  will  not 
want  to  go  to  the  lodges  any  more  after  dark." 

The  widow  remarked,  noting  Michel's  fat  legs  and  arms: 

"Windigo  like  to  eat  him." 

"I  would  kill  a  windigo,"  declared  Michel,  in  full  revolt. 

"  Not  so  easy  to  kill  a  windigo.  Bad  spirits  help  windigos. 
If  man  kill  windigo  and  not  tear  him  to  pieces,  he  come  to 
life  again." 

Archange  herself  shuddered  at  such  a  tenacious  creature. 
She  was  less  superstitious  than  the  Chippewa  woman,  but 


THE  WINDIGO  201 

the  Northwest  had  its  human  terrors  as  dark  as  the  shadow 
of  witchcraft. 

Though  a  Chippewa  was  bound  to  dip  his  hand  in  the 
war  kettle  and  taste  the  flesh  of  enemies  after  victory,  there 
was  nothing  he  considered  more  horrible  than  a  confirmed 
cannibal.  He  believed  that  a  person  who  had  eaten  human 
flesh  to  satisfy  hunger  was  never  afterwards  contented  with 
any  other  kind,  and,  being  deranged  and  possessed  by  the 
spirit  of  a  beast,  he  had  to  be  killed  for  the  safety  of  the 
community.  The  cannibal  usually  became  what  he  was 
by  stress  of  starvation:  in  the  winter  when  hunting  failed 
and  he  was  far  from  help,  or  on  a  journey  when  provisions 
gave  out,  and  his  only  choice  was  to  eat  a  companion  or 
die.  But  this  did  not  excuse  him.  As  soon  as  he  was  de- 
tected, the  name  of  "windigo"  was  given  him,  and  if  he 
did  not  betake  himself  again  to  solitude  he  was  shot  or 
knocked  on  the  head  at  the  first  convenient  opportunity. 
Archange  remembered  one  such  wretched  creature  who  had 
haunted  the  settlement  awhile,  and  then  disappeared. 
His  canoe  was  known,  and  when  it  hovered  even  distantly 
on  the  river  every  child  ran  to  its  mother.  The  priest  was 
less  successful  with  this  kind  of  outcast  than  with  any  other 
barbarian  on  the  frontier. 

"Have  you  seen  him,  Waubudone?"  inquired  Archange. 
"I  wonder  if  it  is  the  same  man  who  used  to  frighten  us?" 

"This  windigo  a  woman.  Porcupine  in  her.  She  lie 
down  and  roll  up  and  hide  her  head  when  you  drive  her 
off." 

"Did  you  drive  her  off?" 

"No.  She  only  come  past  my  lodge  in  the  night." 

"Did  you  see  her?" 

"No,  I  smell  her." 

Archange  had  heard  of  the  atmosphere  which  windigos 
far  gone  in  cannibalism  carried  around  them.  She  desired 
to  know  nothing  more  about  the  poor  creature,  or  the  class 


202  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

to  which  the  poor  creature  belonged,  if  such  isolated  beings 
may  be  classed.  The  Chippewa  widow  talked  without 
being  questioned,  however,  preparing  to  reduce  Archangels 
mass  of  hair  to  the  compass  of  a  nightcap. 

"My  grandmother  told  me  there  was  a  man  dreamed 
he  had  to  eat  seven  persons.  He  sat  by  the  fire  and  shiv- 
ered. If  his  squaw  wanted  meat,  he  quarreled  with  her. 
'Squaw,  take  care.  Thou  wilt  drive  me  so  far  that  I  shall 
turn  windigo.'" 

People  who  did  not  give  Archange  the  keen  interest  of 
fascinating  them  were  a  great  weariness  to  her.  Humble 
or  wretched  human  life  filled  her  with  disgust.  She  could 
dance  all  night  at  the  weekly  dances,  laughing  in  her  sleeve 
at  girls  from  whom  she  took  the  best  partners.  But  she 
never  helped  nurse  a  sick  child,  and  it  made  her  sleepy  to 
hear  of  windigos  and  misery.  Michel  wanted  to  squat  by 
the  chimney  and  listen  until  Louizon  came  in;  but  she 
drove  him  out  early.  Louizon  was  kind  to  the  orphan,  who 
had  been  in  some  respects  a  failure,  and  occasionally  let 
him  sleep  on  blankets  or  skins  by  the  hearth  instead  of 
groping  to  the  dark  attic.  And  if  Michel  ever  wanted  to 
escape  the  attic,  it  was  to-night,  when  a  windigo  was  abroad. 
But  Louizon  did  not  come. 

It  must  have  been  midnight  when  Archange  sat  up  in 
bed,  startled  out  of  sleep  by  her  mother-in-law,  who  held 
a  candle  between  the  curtains.  Madame  Cadotte's  fea- 
tures were  of  a  mild  Chippewa  type,  yet  the  restless  abo- 
riginal eye  made  Archange  uncomfortable  with  its  anxiety. 

"Louizon  is  still  away,"  said  his  mother. 

"Perhaps  he  went  whitefishing  after  he  had  his  supper." 
The  young  wife  yawned  and  rubbed  her  eyes,  beginning  to 
notice  that  her  husband  might  be  doing  something  unusual. 

"He  did  not  come  to  his  supper." 

"Yes,  mama.  He  came  in  with  Monsieur  de  Repen- 
tigny." 


THE  WINDIGO  203 

"I  did  not  see  him.  The  seignior  ate  alone." 

Archange  stared,  fully  awake.  "Where  does  the  seignior 
say  he  is?" 

"The  seignior  does  not  know.  They  parted  at  the  door." 

"Oh,  he  has  gone  to  the  lodges  to  watch  the  dancing." 

"I  have  been  there.  No  one  has  seen  him  since  he  set 
out  to  hunt  this  morning." 

"Where  are  Louizon's  canoemen?" 

"Jean  Boucher  and  his  son  are  at  the  dancing.  They  say 
he  came  into  this  house." 

Archange  could  not  adjust  her  mind  to  anxiety  without 
the  suspicion  that  her  mother-in-law  might  be  acting  as 
the  instrument  of  Louizon's  resentment.  The  huge  feather 
bed  was  a  tangible  comfort  interposed  betwixt  herself  and 
calamity. 

"He  was  sulky  to-night,"  she  declared.  "He  has  gone 
up  to  sleep  in  Michel's  attic  to  frighten  me." 

"I  have  been  there.  I  have  searched  the  house." 

"But  are  you  sure  it  was  Michel  in  the  bed?" 

"There  was  no  one.  Michel  is  here." 

Archange  snatched  the  curtain  aside,  and  leaned  out  to 
see  the  orphan  sprawled  on  a  bearskin  in  front  of  the  col- 
lapsing logs.  He  had  pushed  the  sashes  inward  from  the 
gallery  and  hoisted  himself  over  the  high  sill  after  the  bed 
drapery  was  closed  for  the  night,  for  the  window  yet  stood 
open.  Madame  Cadotte  sheltered  the  candle  she  carried, 
but  the  wind  blew  it  out.  There  was  a  rich  glow  from  the 
fireplace  upon  Michel's  stuffed  legs  and  arms,  his  cheeks, 
and  the  full  parted  lips  through  which  his  breath  audibly 
flowed.  The  other  end  of  the  room,  lacking  the  candle,  was 
in  shadow.  The  thump  of  the  Indian  drum  could  still  be 
heard,  and  distinctly  and  more  distinctly,  as  if  they  were 
approaching  the  house,  the  rapids. 

Both  women  heard  more.  They  had  not  noticed  any 
voice  at  the  window  when  they  were  speaking  themselves, 


204  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

but  some  offensive  thing  scented  the  wind,  and  they  heard, 
hoarsely  spoken  in  Chippewa  from  the  gallery : 

"How  fat  he  is!" 

Archange,  with  a  gasp,  threw  herself  upon  her  mother- 
in-law  for  safety,  and  Madame  Cadotte  put  both  arms  and 
the  smoking  candle  around  her.  A  feeble  yet  dexterous 
scramble  on  the  sill  resulted  in  something  dropping  into  the 
room.  It  moved  toward  the  hearth  glow,  a  gaunt  verte- 
brate body  scarcely  expanded  by  ribs,  but  covered  by  a  red 
blanket,  and  a  head  with  deathlike  features  overhung  by 
strips  of  hair.  This  vision  of  famine  leaned  forward  and 
indented  Michel  with  one  finger,  croaking  again : 

"How  fat  he  is!" 

The  boy  roused  himself,  and,  for  one  instant  stupid  and 
apologetic,  was  going  to  sit  up  and  whine.  He  saw  what 
bent  over  him,  and,  bristling  with  unimaginable  revolu- 
tions of  arms  and  legs,  he  yelled  a  yell  which  seemed  to 
sweep  the  thing  back  through  the  window. 

Next  day  no  one  thought  of  dancing  or  fishing  or  of  the 
coming  English.  Frenchmen  and  Indians  turned  out  to- 
gether to  search  for  Louizon  Cadotte.  Though  he  never  in 
his  life  had  set  foot  to  any  expedition  without  first  notify- 
ing his  household,  and  it  was  not  the  custom  to  hunt  alone 
in  the  woods,  his  disappearance  would  not  have  roused  the 
settlement  is  so  short  a  time  had  there  been  no  windigo 
hanging  about  the  Sault.  It  was  told  that  the  windigo,  who 
entered  his  house  again  in  the  night,  must  have  made  way 
with  him. 

Jacques  Repentigny  heard  this  with  some  amusement. 
Of  windigos  he  had  no  experience,  but  he  had  hunted  and 
Camped  much  of  the  summer  with  Louizon. 

"I  do  not  think  he  would  let  himself  be  knocked  on  the 
head  by  a  woman,"  said  Jacques. 

"White  chief  doesn't  know  what  helps  a  windigo,"  ex- 
plained a  Chippewa;  and  the  canoeman  Jean  Boucher 


THE  WINDIGO  205 

interpreted  him.  "Bad  spirit  makes  a  windigo  strong  as  a 
bear.  I  saw  this  one.  She  stole  my  whitefish  and  ate  them 
raw." 

"Why  didn't  you  give  her  cooked  food  when  you  saw 
her?"  demanded  Jacques. 

"She  would  not  eat  that  now.  She  likes  offal  better." 

"Yes,  she  was  going  to  eat  me,"  declared  Michel  Pen- 
sonneau.  "After  she  finished  Monsieur  Louizon,  she  got 
through  the  window  to  carry  me  off." 

Michel  enjoyed  the  windigo.  Though  he  strummed  on 
his  lip  and  mourned  aloud  whenever  Madame  Cadotte 
was  by,  he  felt  so  comfortably  full  of  food  and  horror,  and 
so  important  with  his  story,  that  life  threatened  him  with 
nothing  worse  than  satiety. 

While  parties  went  up  the  river  and  down  the  river,  and 
talked  about  the  chutes  in  the  rapids  where  a  victim  could 
be  sucked  down  to  death  in  an  instant,  or  about  tracing 
the  windigo's  secret  camp,  Archange  hid  herself  in  the 
attic.  She  lay  upon  Michel's  bed  and  wept,  or  walked  the 
plank  floor.  It  was  no  place  for  her.  At  noon  the  bark  roof 
heated  her  almost  to  fever.  The  dormer  windows  gave  her 
little  air,  and  there  was  dust  as  well  as  something  like  an 
individual  sediment  of  the  poverty  from  which  the  boy  had 
come.  Yet  she  could  endure  the  loft  dungeon  better  than 
the  face  of  the  Chippewa  mother  who  blamed  her,  or  the 
bluff  excitement  of  Monsieur  Cadotte.  She  could  hear  his 
voice  from  time  to  time,  as  he  ran  in  for  spirits  or  pro- 
visions for  parties  of  searchers.  And  Archange  had  aver- 
sion, like  the  instinct  of  a  maid,  to  betraying  fondness  for 
her  husband.  She  was  furious  with  him,  also,  for  causing 
her  pain.  When  she  thought  of  the  windigo,  of  the  rapids, 
of  any  peril  which  might  be  working  his  limitless  absence, 
she  set  clenched  hands  in  her  loosened  hair  and  trembled 
with  hysterical  anguish.  But  the  enormity  of  his  behavior 
if  he  were  alive  made  her  hiss  at  the  rafters.  "Good, 


206  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

monsieur !  Next  time  I  will  have  four  officers.  I  will  have 
the  entire  garrison  sitting  along  the  gallery  !  Yes,  and  they 
shall  be  English,  too.  And  there  is  one  thing  you  will  never 
know,  besides."  She  laughed  through  her  weeping.  "You 
will  never  know  I  made  eyes  at  a  windigo." 

The  preenings  and  posings  of  a  creature  whose  perfec- 
tions he  once  thought  were  the  result  of  a  happy  chance 
had  made  Louizon  roar.  She  remembered  all  their  life  to- 
gether, and  moaned,  "I  will  say  this:  he  was  the  best 
husband  that  any  girl  ever  had.  We  scarcely  had  a  dis- 
agreement. But  to  be  the  widow  of  a  man  who  is  eaten 
up— OSainte  Marie!" 

In  the  clear  August  weather  the  wide  river  seemed  to 
bring  its  opposite  shores  nearer.  Islands  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  settlement,  rocky  drops  in  a  boiling  current, 
vividly  showed  their  rich  foliage  of  pines.  On  one  of  these 
islands  Father  Dablon  and  Father  Marquette  had  built 
their  first  mission  chapel ;  and  though  they  afterwards  re- 
moved it  to  the  mainland,  the  old  tracery  of  foundation 
stones  could  still  be  seen.  The  mountains  of  Lake  Superior 
showed  like  a  cloud.  On  the  ridge  above  fort  and  houses 
the  Chippewa  lodges  were  pleasant  in  the  sunlight,  sending 
ribbons  of  smoke  from  their  camp-fires  far  above  the  ser- 
rated edge  of  the  woods.  Naked  Indian  children  and  their 
playmates  of  the  settlement  shouted  to  one  another,  as 
they  ran  along  the  river  margin,  threats  of  instant  seizure 
by  the  windigo.  The  Chippewa  widow,  holding  her  hus- 
band in  her  arms,  for  she  was  not  permitted  to  hang  him  on 
her  back,  stood  and  talked  with  her  red-skinned  intimates 
of  the  lodges.  The  Frenchwomen  collected  at  the  seigniory 
house.  As  for  the  men  of  the  garrison,  they  were  obliged 
to  stay  and  receive  the  English  then  on  the  way  from 
Detour.  But  they  came  out  to  see  the  boats  off  with  the 
concern  of  brothers,  and  Archange's  uncle,  the  post  com- 
mandant, embraced  Monsieur  Cadotte. 


THE  WINDIGO  207 

The  priest  and  Jacques  Repentigny  did  not  speak  to 
each  other  about  that  wretched  creature  whose  hoverings 
around  the  Sault  were  connected  with  Louizon  Cadotte's 
disappearance.  But  the  priest  went  with  Louizon's  father 
down  the  river,  and  Jacques  led  the  party  which  took  the 
opposite  direction.  Though  so  many  years  had  passed 
since  Father  Dablon  and  Father  Marquette  built  the  first 
bark  chapel,  their  successor  found  his  work  very  little 
easier  than  theirs  had  been. 

A  canoe  was  missing  from  the  little  fleet  usually  tied 
alongshore,  but  it  was  not  the  one  belonging  to  Louizon. 
The  young  seignior  took  that  one,  having  Jean  Boucher 
and  Jean's  son  to  paddle  for  him.  No  other  man  of  Sault 
Sainte  Marie  could  pole  up  the  rapids  or  paddle  down  them 
as  this  expert  Chippewa  could.  He  had  been  baptized  with 
a  French  name,  and  his  son  after  him,  but  no  Chippewa  of 
pure  blood  and  name  looked  habitually  as  he  did  into  those 
whirlpools  called  the  chutes,  where  the  slip  of  a  paddle 
meant  death.  Yet  nobody  feared  the  rapids.  It  was  com- 
mon for  boys  and  girls  to  flit  around  near  shore  in  birch 
canoes,  balancing  themselves  and  expertly  dipping  up 
whitefish. 

Jean  Boucher  thrust  out  his  boat  from  behind  an  island, 
and,  turning  it  as  a  fish  glides,  moved  over  thin  sheets  of 
water  spraying  upon  rocks.  The  fall  of  the  Sainte  Marie  is 
gradual,  but  even  at  its  upper  end  there  is  a  little  hill  to 
climb.  Jean  set  his  pole  into  the  stone  floor  of  the  river,  and 
lifted  the  vessel  length  by  length  from  crest  to  crest  of  foam. 
His  paddles  lay  behind  him,  and  his  arms  were  bare  to  the 
elbows,  showing  their  strong  red  sinews.  He  had  let  his 
hair  grow  like  a  Frenchman's,  and  it  hung  forward  shading 
his  hatless  brows.  A  skin  apron  was  girded  in  front  of  him 
to  meet  waves  which  frothed  up  over  the  canoe's  high 
prow.  Blacksmith  of  the  waters,  he  beat  a  path  between 
juts  of  rock ;  struggling  to  hold  a  point  with  the  pole,  call- 


208  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

ing  a  quick  word  to  his  helper,  and  laughing  as  he  forged 
his  way.  Other  voyagers  who  did  not  care  to  tax  them- 
selves with  this  labor  made  a  portage  with  their  canoes 
alongshore,  and  started  above  the  glassy  curve  where  the 
river  bends  down  to  its  leap. 

Gros  Cap  rose  in  the  sky,  revealing  its  peak  in  bolder 
lines  as  the  searchers  pushed  up  the  Sainte  Marie,  explor- 
ing mile  after  mile  of  pine  and  white  birch  and  fantastic 
rock.  The  shaggy  bank  stooped  to  them,  the  illimitable 
glory  of  the  wilderness  witnessing  a  little  procession  of 
boats  like  chips  floating  by. 

It  was  almost  sunset  when  they  came  back,  the  tired 
paddlers  keeping  near  that  shore  on  which  they  intended 
to  land.  No  trace  of  Louizon  Cadotte  could  be  found ;  and 
those  who  had  not  seen  the  windigo  were  ready  to  declare 
that  there  was  no  such  thing  about  the  Sault,  when,  just 
above  the  rapids,  she  appeared  from  the  dense  up-slope  of 
forest. 

Jacques  Repentigny's  canoe  had  kept  the  lead,  but  a 
dozen  light-bodied  Chippewas  sprung  on  shore  and  rushed 
past  him  into  the  bushes. 

The  woman  had  disappeared  in  underbrush,  but,  sur- 
rounded by  hunters  in  full  chase,  she  came  running  oat,  and 
fell  on  her  hands,  making  a  hoarse  noise  in  her  throat.  As 
she  looked  up,  all  the  marks  in  her  aged  aboriginal  face 
were  distinct  to  Jacques  Repentigny.  The  sutures  in  her 
temples  were  parted.  She  rolled  herself  around  in  a  ball, 
and  hid  her  head  in  her  dirty  red  blanket.  Any  wild  beast 
was  in  harmony  with  the  wilderness,  but  this  sick  human 
being  was  a  blot  upon  it.  Jacques  felt  the  compassion  of  a 
god  for  her.  Her  pursuers  were  after  her,  and  the  thud  of 
stones  they  threw  made  him  heartsick,  as  if  the  thing  were 
done  to  the  woman  he  loved. 

"Let  her  alone !"  he  commanded  fiercely. 

''Kill  her!"  shouted  the  hunters.  "Hit  the  windigo  on 
the  head!" 


THE  WINDIGO  209 

All  that  world  of  Northern  air  could  not  sweeten  her, 
but  Jacques  picked  her  up  without  a  thought  of  her  offen- 
siveness  and  ran  to  his  canoe.  The  bones  resisted  him; 
the  claws  scratched  at  him  through  her  blanket.  Jean 
Boucher  lifted  a  paddle  to  hit  the  creature  as  soon  as  she 
was  down. 

"  If  you  strike  her,  I  will  kill  you ! "  warned  Jacques,  and 
he  sprung  into  the  boat. 

The  superstitious  Chippewas  threw  themselves  madly 
into  their  canoes  to  follow.  It  would  go  hard,  but  they 
would  get  the  windigo  and  take  the  young  seignior  out  of 
her  spell.  The  Frenchmen,  with  man's  instinct  for  the 
chase,  were  in  full  cry  with  them. 

Jean  Boucher  laid  down  his  paddle  sulkily,  and  his  son 
did  the  same.  Jacques  took  a  long  pistol  from  his  belt  and 
pointed  it  at  the  old  Indian. 

"If  you  don't  paddle  for  life,  I  will  shoot  you."  And  his 
eyes  were  eyes  which  Jean  respected  as  he  never  had  re- 
spected anything  before.  The  young  man  was  a  beautiful 
fellow.  If  he  wanted  to  save  a  windigo,  why,  the  saints  let 
him.  The  priest  might  say  a  good  word  about  it  when  you 
came  to  think,  also. 

"Where  shall  I  paddle  to?"  inquired  Jean  Boucher, 
drawing  in  his  breath.  The  canoe  leaped  ahead,  grazing 
hands  stretched  out  to  seize  it. 

"To  the  other  side  of  the  river." 

"Down  the  rapids?" 

"Yes." 

"  Go  down  rough  or  go  down  smooth  ?  " 

"Rough  —  rough  —  where  they  cannot  catch  you." 

The  old  canoeman  snorted.  He  would  like  to  see  any  of 
them  catch  him.  They  were  straining  after  him,  and  half  a 
dozen  canoes  shot  down  that  glassy  slide  which  leads  to  the 
rocks. 

It  takes  three  minutes  for  a  skillful  paddler  to  run  that 


210  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

dangerous  race  of  three  quarters  of  a  mile.  Jean  Boucher 
stood  at  the  prow,  and  the  waves  boiled  as  high  as  his  waist. 
Jacques  dreaded  only  that  the  windigo  might  move  and 
destroy  the  delicate  poise  of  the  boat ;  but  she  lay  very  still. 
The  little  craft  quivered  from  rock  to  rock  without  grazing 
one,  rearing  itself  over  a  great  breaker  or  sinking  under  a 
crest  of  foam.  Now  a  billow  towered  up,  and  Jean  broke  it 
with  his  paddle,  shouting  his  joy.  Showers  fell  on  the 
woman  coiled  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  They  were  going 
down  very  rough  indeed.  Yells  from  the  other  canoes  grew 
less  distinct.  Jacques  turned  his  head,  keeping  a  true 
balance,  and  saw  that  their  pursuers  were  skirting  toward 
the  shore.  They  must  make  a  long  detour  to  catch  him 
after  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  fall. 

The  roar  of  awful  waters  met  him  as  he  looked  ahead. 
Jean  Boucher  drove  the  paddle  down  and  spoke  to  his  son. 
The  canoe  leaned  sidewise,  sucked  by  the  first  chute,  a 
caldron  in  the  river  bed  where  all  Sainte  Marie's  current 
seemed  to  go  down,  and  whirl,  and  rise,  and  froth,  and  roar. 

"Ha!"  shouted  Jean  Boucher.  His  face  glistened  with 
beads  of  water  and  the  glory  of  mastering  Nature. 

Scarcely  were  they  past  the  first  pit  when  the  canoe 
plunged  on  the  verge  of  another.  This  sight  was  a  moment 
of  madness.  The  great  chute,  lined  with  moving  water 
walls  and  floored  with  whirling  foam,  bellowed  as  if  it  were 
submerging  the  world.  Columns  of  green  water  sheeted  in 
white  rose  above  it  and  fell  forward  on  the  current.  As  the 
canoemen  held  on  with  their  paddles  and  shot  by  through 
spume  and  rain,  every  soul  in  the  boat  exulted  except  the 
woman  who  lay  flat  on  its  keel.  The  rapids  gave  a  voyager 
the  illusion  that  they  were  running  uphill  to  meet  him, 
that  they  were  breasting  and  opposing  him  instead  of 
carrying  him  forward.  There  was  scarcely  a  breath  be- 
tween riding  the  edge  of  the  bottomless  pit  and  shooting 
out  on  clear  water.  The  rapids  were  past,  and  they  paddled 
for  the  other  shore,  a  mile  away. 


THE  WINDIGO  211 

On  the  west  side  the  green  water  seemed  turning  to  fire, 
but  as  the  sunset  went  out,  shadows  sank  on  the  broad 
surface.  The  fresh  evening  breath  of  a  primitive  world 
blew  across  it.  Down-river  the  channel  turned,  and 
Jacques  could  see  nothing  of  the  English  or  of  the  other 
party.  His  pursuers  had  decided  to  land  at  the  settlement. 

It  was  twilight  when  Jean  Boucher  brought  the  canoe  to 
pine  woods  which  met  them  at  the  edge  of  the  water.  The 
young  Repentigny  had  been  wondering  what  he  should  do 
with  his  windigo.  There  was  no  settlement  on  this  shore, 
and  had  there  been  one  it  would  offer  no  hospitality  to  such 
as  she  was.  His  canoemen  would  hardly  camp  with  her, 
and  he  had  no  provisions.  To  keep  her  from  being  stoned 
or  torn  to  pieces  he  had  made  an  inconsiderate  flight.  But 
his  perplexity  dissolved  in  a  moment  before  the  sight  of 
Louizon  Cadotte  coming  out  of  the  woods  towards  them, 
having  no  hunting  equipments  and  looking  foolish. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  called  Jacques. 

"Down  this  shore,"  responded  Louizon. 

"  Did  you  take  a  canoe  and  come  out  here  last  night  ? " 

"Yes,  monsieur.  I  wished  to  be  by  myself.  The  canoe 
is  below.  I  was  coming  home." 

"  It  is  time  you  were  coming  home,  when  all  the  men  in 
the  settlement  are  searching  for  you,  and  all  the  women 
trying  to  console  your  mother  and  your  wife." 

"My  wife  —  she  is  not  then  talking  with  any  one  on  the 
gallery?"  Louizon's  voice  betrayed  gratified  revenge. 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  there  is  a  woman  in  this  canoe  who 
might  talk  on  the  gallery  and  complain  to  the  priest  against 
a  man  who  has  got  her  stoned  on  his  account. " 

Louizon  did  not  understand  this,  even  when  he  looked 
at  the  heap  of  dirty  blanket  in  the  canoe. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  inquired. 

"The  Chippewas  call  her  a  windigo.  They  were  all 
chasing  her  for  eating  you  up.  But  now  we  can  take  her 


212  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

back  to  the  priest,  and  they  will  let  her  alone  when  they 
see  you.  Where  is  your  canoe?" 

"Down  here  among  the  bushes,"  answered  Louizon.  He 
went  to  get  it,  ashamed  to  look  the  young  seignior  in  the 
face.  He  was  light-headed  from  hunger  and  exposure,  and 
what  followed  seemed  to  him  afterwards  a  piteous  dream. 

"Come  back!"  called  the  young  seignior,  and  Louizon 
turned  back.  The  two  men's  eyes  met  in  a  solemn  look. 

"Jean  Boucher  says  this  woman  is  dead." 

Jean  Boucher  stood  on  the  bank,  holding  the  canoe  with 
one  hand,  and  turning  her  unresisting  face  with  the  other. 
Jacques  and  Louizon  took  off  their  hats. 

They  heard  the  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will.  The  river  had 
lost  all  its  green  and  was  purple,  and  purple  shadows  lay  on 
the  distant  mountains  and  opposite  ridge.  Darkness  was 
mercifully  covering  this  poor  demented  Indian  woman, 
overcome  by  the  burdens  of  her  life,  aged  without  being 
venerable,  perhaps  made  hideous  by  want  and  sorrow. 

When  they  had  looked  at  her  in  silence,  respecting  her 
because  she  could  no  longer  be  hurt  by  anything  in  the 
world,  Louizon  whispered  aside  to  his  seignior: 

"What  shall  we  do  with  her?" 

"Bury  her,"  the  old  canoeman  answered  for  him. 

One  of  the  party  yet  thought  of  taking  her  back  to  the 
priest.  But  she  did  not  belong  to  priests  and  rites.  Jean 
Boucher  said  they  could  dig  in  the  forest  mould  with  a 
paddle,  and  he  and  his  son  would  make  her  a  grave.  The 
two  Chippewas  left  the  burden  to  the  young  men. 

Jacques  Repentigny  and  Louizon  Cadotte  took  up  the 
woman  who,  perhaps,  had  never  been  what  they  considered 
woman;  who  had  missed  the  good,  and  got  for  her  portion 
the  ignorance  and  degradation  of  the  world;  yet  who  must 
be  something  to  the  Almighty,  for  he  had  sent  youth  and 
love  to  pity  and  take  care  of  her  in  her  death.  They  carried 
her  into  the  woods  between  them. 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S1 

BY  JAMES  WEBER  LINN 

DUKE'S  slept  in  the  hot  sun.  Who  was  Duke,  what  was  he, 
where  did  he  come  from,  where  did  he  go  —  the  scion  of  a 
noble  house,  or  some  intimate,  humble  citizen  of  the  plains  ? 
Nobody  knows;  his  memory  is  shrouded  in  the  mists  of 
antiquity  which  wrap  the  early  eighties.  The  railroad, 
toiling  over  the  ruddy  desert,  crosses  a  little  empty  run, 
which  in  some  seasons  holds  water  from  heaven  knows 
where;  and  at  the  crossing  stands,  or  crouches,  Duke's. 
Rose-red  hills,  clasping  in  their  jealous  hearts  the  secret  of 
fertility,  some  day  to  be  delivered  up  at  the  touch  of  the 
Genius  —  rose-red,  sun-smitten,  dusty,  treeless,  grasslessa 
waterless  hills  roll  and  roll  endlessly  away  from  Duke's, 
lonely  and  bare  as  in  the  ages  before  history  began;  bi- 
sected by  the  two  gleaming  steel  rails,  seeming  unhuman 
somehow,  savage  as  the  cacti,  and  no  more  a  part  of  civili- 
zation than  the  flickering,  quivering  sun-devils  are  which 
dance  hour  after  hour  above  them  to  the  monotonous 
fiddling  of  Phaeton  in  his  fiery  chariot.  Duke's  is  a  tank,  a 
platform,  a  little  wooden  shanty,  and  a  name.  Passengers 
upon  the  observation-cars  of  the  Limited  behold  it,  and  in 
utter  idleness  watch  its  oblong  diminish  over  the  flat  miles ; 
suddenly  the  train  whips  round  the  shoulder  of  a  hill,  and 
Duke's  is  gone  forever  from  their  memory. 

When  had  such  a  passenger  been  known  to  descend  at 
Duke's?  And  yet,  one  afternoon  of  a  day  late  in  April,  one 
did  descend.  The  person  who  got  off  upon  that  little  oasis 
of  station  platform  was  a  girl.  She  had  left  the  spring  be- 
hind her  piecing  out  its  mosaic  of  showers  and  sunshine, 
1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  McClure's  Magazine,  August,  1903. 


214  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

with  birds  singing  and  mating,  and  had  traveled  two  thou- 
sand miles  to  reach  this  forsaken  spot  in  the  land  of  burn- 
ing summer.  The  conductor,  as  he  helped  her  from  the 
step,  looked  at  her  doubtfully;  the  porter,  who  followed 
with  her  handbag,  looked  at  Duke's  disdainfully;  and  the 
passengers  in  the  "tourist "  looked  wonderingly  at  all  three. 

"Well,  your  folks  ain't  here,"  said  the  conductor. 

"Who  did  you  expect,  lady?"  asked  the  porter. 

She  replied  shyly  to  both.  She  was  a  girl  of  twenty,  per- 
haps; of  a  pretty  timidity;  plainly  not  one  wfro  was  ac- 
customed to  find  for  herself.  "It  is  my  uncle*. 'He  knows 
that  I  am  coming." 

"I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  meditated  the  conductor,  "but 
I'd  be  easier  in  my  mind  if  I  saw  him  waiting  for  you.  Some 
men  got  no  sense  of  punctuality.  And  if  I  was  lookin* 
for  the  jumpin'-off  place,  I  certainly  would  n't  go  a  step 
farther." 

"Lonely  place  to  leave  a  lady  in,  foh  suah,"  assented  the 
porter. 

"Well,  if  you're  easy  in  your  mind,  I  guess  we'll  have  to 
be  pulling  out,"  observed  the  conductor.  "You're  sure  you 
won't  come  on  to  Wheeler?" 

"No,  sir,  I  think  I'd  better  not." 

They  left  her  reluctantly  2  The  porter  tossed  his  carpet- 
covered  stool  to  the  platform,  and  swung  aboard,  waving 
his  hand  encouragingly.  She  watched  the  train  foreshorten 
itself  to  a  square  in  the  distance,  until  the  hill  shut  it  out. 
Its  last,  least  humming  died  away.  Instantly  primeval 
silence  and  desolation  reasserted  themselves. 

She  looked  about  her,  and  saw  her  trunk,  some  rods  from 
her.  Farther  off,  the  line  of  dying  green  showed  where  the 
creek  had  been.  A  lizard  ran  along  the  edge  of  the  plat- 
form, and  perceiving  her,  made  an  odd  little  noise  in  its 
throat,  like  the  snapping  of  a  match-box.  Otherwise,  there 
was  no  sign  of  life  anywhere.  Half  an  hour  passed;  an  hour. 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  215 

Her  uncle  was  long  in  coming  !  The  shade  of  the  tiny  sta- 
tion shifted  lazily  over  the  hot  boards.  She  made  an  effort 
to  draw  her  trunk  within  it,  for  she  was  tired  of  standing, 
but  though  she  flushed  and  panted  in  her  endeavor,  she  was 
unsuccessful.  Another  half-hour  passed.  Her  eyes  were 
weary  with  gazing  across  the  glowing  slopes,  and  her  brain 
ached  with  waiting.  Off  in  the  distance  a  bird  lazily  sailed, 
and  she  followed  its  flight  aimlessly.  A  red  rock  looming 
upon  a  hill,  a  rock  of  sandstone  carved  and  machicolated 
by  the  centuries,  confronted  her,  and  she  stared  at  it  till 
presently  it  glared  and  blurred,  for  she  was  crying.  She 
stepped  from  the  edge  of  the  platform;  at  once  her  foot 
sank  to  the  ankle  in  the  soft,  fine  dust,  which  followed  in  a 
little  jet  as  she  drew  back.  She  could  hot  travel  far  that 
way ;  besides,  she  was  quite  ignorant  of  the  road.  "  Come 
to  Duke's,"  her  uncle  had  written,  "and  I  will  meet  you 
there."  That  was  a  month  ago,  after  her  mother  died.  The 
girl  had  come  promptly,  her  warm  young  heart  stirring 
with  affection  for  the  uncle  whose  hospitality  asked  no 
questions ;  he  had  sent  her  the  money  for  the  journey,  and 
she  was  here.  It  was  incomprehensible,  terrible,  that  he 
should  fail  her  now.  Should  she  go  back  ?  To  whom  —  and 
how?  Her  questions  mocked  her. 

As  she  stood  there  forlornly,  a  musical  note  reached  her 
ear,  and  another,  and  another,  shaping  themselves  into  the 
fragment  of  a  tune  which  had  been  popular  in  New  York 
years  before.  From  behind  the  thrust  of  a  hill  rode  a  young 
man,  sitting  on  a  dusty  sorrel  pony,  and  singing  as  he  rode. 
At  the  sight  of  him  the  girl's  heart  leaped,  and  then  sank 
again ;  for  she  saw  that  he  was  plainly  bent  on  errands  of 
his  own.  He  did  not  glance  in  her  direction.  To  call  to  him, 
without  knowing  what  sort  of  man  he  might  be,  seemed 
dreadful ;  and  yet  not  so  dreadful  as  to  let  him  go  and  be 
left  again  to  solitude.  He  crossed  the  space  between  two 
hills,  the  dust  spouting  and  floating  around  him,  while  she 


216  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

sought  to  make  up  her  mind.  He  was  disappearing,  when 
she  gave  a  low  cry  —  involuntary,  it  seemed,  and  so  low 
that  he  must  have  had  sharp  ears  to  hear  it  at  his  distance. 
Hear  it  he  did ;  turned,  saw  her  standing  there,  and,  flicking 
the  sorrel  with  his  quirt,  cantered  toward  her  rapidly.  In- 
stinctively she  shrank  a  little,  though  she  had  called  to 
him.  ^ 

"You  were  not  sent  to  meet  me?"  she  faltered. 

"No,  Miss,"  he  said  respectfully. 

"My  name  is  Dudley  —  Miss  Dorothy  Dudley.  I  —  I 
expected  some  one  to  meet  me  here." 

He  waited  in  silence.  He  had  removed  his  wide,  corded 
hat,  and  she  saw  that  his  hair  was  brown,  and  his  face 
tanned  almost  black;  even  his  eyelids  were  tanned,  and 
the  blue  of  his  eyes  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  them. 

"It  was  my  uncle,"  the  girl  went  on  eagerly.  A  sudden 
fear  seized  her,  and  she  cried:  "He  was  to  meet  me  at 
Duke's.  This  is  Duke's,  isn't  it?"* 

"This  city?  Yes,  ma'am." 

She  looked  at  him  hopelessly,  and  the  tears,  which  she 
had  restrained,  stood  in  her  eyes  once  more. 

"Maybe,"  he  said  gently,  "if  you  was  to  tell  me  your 
uncle's  name,  Miss,  I  might  know  him.  I  know  a  good 
many  round  here." 

"Gage  —  Mr.  Henry  F.  Gage.  His  ranch  is  the  Bar  K." 

The  young  fellow  gave  a  slight  start.  "Gage  —  the 
BarK?"  he  repeated.  "Why,  Miss — "  He  broke  off. 
She  ventured  to  look  at  him  again;  and  her  shy,  quick 
glance  noted  the  dear  line  of  his  forehead,  the  clean,  firm 
line  of  his  jaw,  the  little  upward  curving  of  his  lips ;  and  her 
girl's  heart  told  her  that  she  was  not  wholly  helpless  now, 
and  need  not  be  afraid.  She  had  time  to  wonder  who  he 
was,  and  on  what  errand  he  had  been  bound,  before  he 
spoke  again.  Yet  his  pause  was  scarcely  perceptible. 

"I  reckon  I'm  in  some  luck;  yes,  I  reckon  I  am.  You 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  217 

wanted  Mr.  Gage,  of  the  Bar  K  ?  That's  where  I  hang  out, 
Miss." 

"You  live  there?" 

He  nodded.  "Foreman,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

"I  am  so  glad!"  She  had  not  known  how  her  nerves 
were  strained  until  the  relief  came.  "Can  you  take  me 
there  ?  Is  it  far  ?  Do  you  know  why  my  uncle  didn't  come 
to  meet  me  ?  " 

A  strange  expression,  untranslatable  to  the  girl,  hovered 
upon  his  face. 

"You  say  you  were  expecting  him?  You  wrote  to 
Wheeler,  didn't  you?  That's  where  we  get  our  mail. 
Wheeler's  about  forty  miles  on.  I  reckon  your  letter's  there 
now ;  we've  not  been  in  —  not  for  ten  days." 

"And  suppose  you  hadn't  come  along?" 

"  I  guess  maybe  that  was  arranged.  I  don't  guess  you're 
the  sort  of  lady  that  hard  luck  is  wantin'  to  meet."  He 
paused.  "  Your  uncle  —  Mr.  Gage  —  he's  not  at  the  ranch 
just  now,"  he  added. 

"Not  at  the  ranch?"  she  said  after  him. 

"Yesterday  was  a  week,"  he  calculated,  "that  he  went." 

"But  what  shall  I  do?"  she  cried.  She  told  him,  hur- 
riedly, all  that  she  could  of  her  affairs;  she  was  glad  to 
explain  her  strange  presence  there.  She  was  as  unsuspicious 
of  him  as  a  child,  he  could  see. 

"Well,  Miss,"  he  answered,  "I  don't  know.  You  see,  of 
course,  you  could  go  on  to  Wheeler,  or  back  to  Winslow, 
and  wait  therettill  you  hear  from  him ;  but  there's  no  train 
till  to-morrow,  now." 

"But  how  could  I  wait  here  till  then?" 

"And  I  reckon  you're  hungry,  too,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"  I  could  tote  you  right  out  to  the  Bar  K  on  Pete  —  he's  a 
kitten  when  I  give  him  the  say-so ;  but  — "  He  frowned. 

"  But  you  would  have  to  walk ! "  she  finished  disappoint- 
edly. 


218  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

"I  hope  you  weren't  thinking  I  was  caring  about  that?" 
He  saw  her  answer  in  her  look,  and  it  seemed  to  decide 
him.  "Come,"  he  said ;  and  though,  as  soon  as  he  had  de- 
cided, she  hung  back,  hesitating,  suddenly  he  put  his  two 
hands  beneath  her  elbows,  and  lifted  he?  lightly  into  the 
saddle,  in  which  she  sat  sidewise,  as  if  it  had  been  a  chair. 
In  front  it  had  a  great  horn,  or  pommel,  and  the  rear 
curved  bluntly  up,  unlike  any  saddle  the  girl  had  ever  seen. 
Obediently  she  steadied  herself  with  one  hand  upon  the 
pommel;  her  brown  skirts  fluttered  against  the  sorrel 
j»  O  pony's  side,  and  the  animal  looked  round  nervously,  but 
I  the  young  man  patted  his  nose,  soothing  him. 

'"There,  be  good,"  he  said.  "Do  you  want  to  lose  your 
good  luck,  you  Pete  ?  ]j  am  expectin'  you  to  behave."  He 
slipped  the  bridle  over  the  pony's  head.  "  Come  on,  quit 
your  joking,  horse ;  come  on  now."  After  a  moment  the 
sorrel  followed  quietly.  They  set  forward  into  the  desert, 
the  man  trudging  at  the  pony's  head,  and  the  girl,  her  little 
feet  rising  and  falling  with  the  pony's  breathing,  her  right 
arm  about  the  saddle-horn,  and  her  brown  eyes  roaming 
over  the  hot,  dry  wastes,  but  always  returning  to  fasten 
themselves  upon  the  unconscious  back  of  her  young  guide. 
The  sun  brooded  and  burned  above  them,  but  she  was  gay 
in  the  relief  fromjtier  loneliness.  She  asked  him  his  name 
and  why  he  had'  come  into  this  part  of  the  country ;  she 
asked  him  a  hundred  questions  of  her  uncle,  and  of  the 
Bar  K  ranch ;  but  the  more  she  questioned  him,  the  more 
somber  grew  his  tone,  the  briefer  his  replies,  until  she  began 
to  wonder,  and  to  remember  again  the  wide  desolate  spaces 
about  them,  and  her  ignorance  of  her  conductor  and  her 
destination.  Fear  crept  into  her  heart  again,  and  stilled 
her ;  until,  noticing  her  silence,  he  turned  round,  and,  she 
hardly  knew  why,  she  was  reassured.  She  thought  how 
fine  the  life  must  be  which  made  men  so  strong  and  yet  so 
lightly  formed ;  and  she  wondered  what  he  was  thinking  of, 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  219 

and  as  she  wondered  she  brushed  the  red  dust  from  her 
skirts  with  her  free  hand.  The  heat  made  her  sleepy.  She 
did  not  know  how  long  they  had  been  traveling  when,  at 
the  summit  of  a  slope,  he  turned  and  said : 

"There's  the  Bar  K,  Miss." 

"Oh-h!" 

Imagine,  set  in  the  midst  of  masses  of  crusted  rose-pink 
topaz  and  chrysolite,  a  single  great  emerald,  like  a  seal,  and 
dangling  down  from  it,  a  narrow  silken  ribbon  of  the  intens- 
est  green.  Thus  you  may  conceive  what  wrung  the  excla- 
mation from*  tlie  girl's  lips,  and  then  kept  her  silent.  The 
ranch  was  still  a' mile  away,  but -in  that  thin  clear  air  it 
showed  as  if  it  lay  at  their  very  feet.  Up  to  their  ears  came 
the  thin  barking  of  a  dog,  and  the  faint  soft  sigh  of  puffing 
steam.  A  capful  of  vapor  floated  lazily  through  the  trees, 
and  a  throb,  throb,  which  the  distance  robbed  of  its  harsh- 
ness, proclaimed  the  working  of  an  engine. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"That's  the  well,  Miss,  that  irrigates  the  ranch.  All  the 
soil  round  here  is  rich,  if  they  could  only  get  water  to  it. 
Your  uncle  happened  to  find  the  water,  just  here." 

"Is  that  all  my  uncle's?  I  don't  see  how  he  could  go 
away  and  leave  it  —  it's  so  beautiful.  How  soon  do  you 
think  he  will  be  back  ?  " 

The  man  failed  to  answer  her,  relapsing  again  into  the 
moody  silence  from  which  the  sight  of  the  ranch  had  drawn 
him.  And  as  they  approached  the  place,  her  timidity  rose 
once  more,  with  the  knowledge  that  she  had  offended  him 
somehow,  though  in  what  way  she  did  not'  know.  They 
had  almost  reached  the  buildings,  in  the  midst  of  which 
towered  the  reservoir  and  coughed  the  engine,  like  a  patron 
saint  hoarse  with  many  benedictions,  when  she  ventured  to 
say,  half  under  her  breath : 

"I  hope  you  won't  forget  to  let  me  see  you  again,  to 
thank  you  for  bringing  me  here.  You  know  I'm  very  much 


220  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

obliged  to  you ;  I  don't  know  what  I  could  have  done  with- 
out you." 

"Are  you,  Miss?"  \ 

"I  don't  know  what  I  could  havfe,done  without  you," 
she  repeated  hurriedly,  something  in^his  tone  seeming  to 
make  his  question  mocking.  He  bowed  gravely,  took  her 
hand  in  his,  and  helped  her  to  the  ground.  For  an  instant 
he  continued  to  hold  her,  his  eyes  searching  her  face.  Her 
heart  beat  fast ;  but  he  said  only : 

"You  know  I'd  be  mighty  glad  to  be  of  service  to  you." 

Then  he  released  her,  and  they  walked  in  silence  up  the 
little  path  which  led  to  the  door. 

As  they  did  so  a  man  came  round  the  corner  of  the  low 
building  and  confronted  them. 

"  Why,  where  the  — "  he  began ;  then,  seeing  the  girl, 
he  left  off  speaking,  with  his  mouth  still  open,  and  utter 
surprise  written  on  his  face.  But  he  recovered  himself 
quickly. 

"Why,  Bill,  up  to  your  old  tricks,  hey  ?"  he  said  softly. 
"Like  to  meet  your  friend,  if  it's  convenient,  I  would." 

The  young  man  made  no  answer;  she  quickened  her 
step,  and  they  left  him  standing,  with  an  evil  smile  upon 
his  lips,  staring  after  them.  She  could  feel  his  sensual  look 
upon  her,  as  she  unconsciously  walked  closer  to  her  guide ; 
it  followed  her,  piercing,  enfolding,  defiling  her  in  spite  of 
herself.  The  fear  which  had  been  partly  forgotten  'sprang 
up  in  her  heart  again.  Was  this  truly  the  Bar  K  ranch,  or 
—  she  could  not  finish  the  thought,  even  to  herself,  as  she 
realized  her  own  helplessness,  her  remoteness  from  all  that 
she  knew  of  civilization. 

"This  is  your  uncle's  shack,  Miss ;  I  reckon  you'd  better 
keep  it  for  to-night,  anyway,"  he  said ;  but  with  that  other 
man  so  near  her,  his  voice  had  lost  its  power  to  reassure. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  nervously.  "Can  you  —  can  you 
send  a  woman  here,  please  ?  " 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  221 

He  shook  Ms  head.  "There  ain't  any  woman  on  the 
place,  Miss ;  I'm  sor^y." 

Over  his  shoulder  she  caught  the  eyes  of  the  other  man, 
still  turned  steadfastly  upon  her.  She  knew  that  she  was 
growing  pale,  but  she  tried  to  say  bravely : 

"Never  mind ;  I  —  I  shall  not  need  one,  I  think." 

Then,  as  he  left  her,  she  shut  the  door  fast ;  she  meant  to 
lock  it,  but  there  was  no  key,  and  she  could  only  press  a 
chair  against  it.  She  grew  weak  and  sick  as  she  stood  there, 
straining  her  ears  to  hear  the  conversation  that  should  pass 
outside.  Her  heart  fluttered;  her  hands, grew  cold;  in  a 
wild  thought  of  escape,  she  looked  about  iftie  room,  to  see 
whither  she  might  fly.  Mistily  she  saw  the  big  bare  oblong 
of  it,  the  table  with  its  red  cloth,  the  deer's  heads  above 
the  windows,  the  coyote  skins  upon  the  floor ;  and  then  her 
eye  caught  the  two  narrow  book-shelves  upon  the  opposite 
wall,  and,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  she  crossed  to 
them,  and  took  down  a  volume  at  random.  She  meant  to 
open  it,  to  look  at  the  fly-leaf,  but  her  fingers  refused  to 
obey  her.  When  she  had  them  under  her  control,  she 
looked  quickly.  A  name  was  written  there,  in  bold  black 
chirography ;  the  lines  wavered  and  trembled,  then  settled 
into  a  signature  she  knew.  Henry  F.  Gage !  She  had 
reached  her  destination.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  not  know- 
ing whether  she  wished  to  laugh  or  cry.  This  was  the  Bar 
K!  Lonely  she  was  still,  but  no  longer  afraid.  She  had 
done  right  to  trust  the  man  who  had  been  good  to  her  ! 

While  she  sat  there,  trying  to  force  herself  to  realize 
where  she  was,  a  silent,  soft-padding  Chinaman  entered, 
and  began  to  set  the  table  for  her  supper.  She  watched  him 
curiously,  and  saw  that  he  provided  only  one  place.  She 
was*  to  eat  alone,  then.  She  spoke  to  him,  conquering  her 
aversion  with  an  effort,  and  he  bowed  solemnly,  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  upon  his  breast,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to 
answer  her  question ;  and,  when  she  said  nothing  more,  he 


222  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

went  on  deftly  with  his  work.  When  she  looked  towards 
him,  his  beady,  glittering  black  eyes  were  fastened  upon 
whatever  occupied  his  fingers ;  yet  when  she  looked  away, 
she  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  their  quick  stare  fixed  upon 
her,  and,  though  she  hardly  knew  why,  she  was  glad  when 
the  meal  was  ready,  and,  the  yellow  pointed  nailST'once 
more  apexed  upon  his  breast,  he  signified  to  her  that  she 
should  eat,  and  noiselessly  took  his  departure. 
"When  supper  was  over  the  sun  was  almost  down  and  it 
was  seven  o'clock,  yet  there  was  still  no  decay  in  the  bril- 
liance of  the  light.  She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out, 
and  the  sight  drew  her,  in  spite  of  herself,  into  the  open. 
She  was  in  the  emerald  heart  of  a  world  of  coral-pink. 
Softer  than  scarlet,  more  glowing  than  pink,  the  earth  lay 
suffused,  tinted  like  the  embers  of  a  dying  fire.  Gradually 
the  plains  became  enclose;  deep  purple  lowered  in  the  sky, 
orange  and  gold  and  pearl;  yet  still  the  marvel  and  the 
richness  of  the  rose  claimed  them  and  won  them  all,  won 
then  into  its  heart.  Dorothy  watched  it;  and  for  long 
minutes  there  was  no  change,  no  diminution  of  its  irresist- 
ible splendor ;  the  beauty  was  flaunted  unendurably,  as  if 
God  would  forgive  the  world  no  jot  of  abasement  before  his 
terrible  glory.  Then  slowly  a  gray  veil  began  to  film  the 
heavens ;  for  a  moment,  as  the  rose  faded,  the  bright  colors 
gleamed  and  displayed  themselves  again  in  bands  and 
streaks  ancf  turning,  prismatic  spots ;  then,  suddenly,  as  if 
the  fire  were  dead,  the  wind  blew  the  embers  black,  and 
night  fell. 

"That's  part  of  why  I  stay  in  this  section,  I  reckon," 
said  the  boy  in  a  low  voice. 

She  knew  that  he  had  been  standing  quiet  beside  her. 
Because  she  had  wronged  him  in  her  thoughts,  her  face 
caught  the  dying  flush  of  the  sun  as  she  turned  to  him,  and 
she  put  out  her  hand, 

"How  wonderful  it  is!  Does  it  come  always?" 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  223 

"  'Most  always,  at  this,  time  of  year.  I  reckon  you  didn't 
think  much  of  me  for 'not  telling  you  there  was  no  other 
ladies  on  this  ranch  ?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

She  flushed  again. 

"I  didn't  mind,"  she  said.  But  his  eyes  were  upon  her, 
reading  her,  and  she  added,  "That  is  —  I  did  at  first.  But 
I  knew  you  couldn't  help  yourself." 

"  I  kind  o'  didn't  want  to  worry  you  before  I  had  to,"  he 
said  eagerly.  "I  thought  it'd  be  better  if  you  came  out 
here,  instead  of  waiting  back  to  Duke's  all  night;  but  I 
reckon  I'd  ought  to  have  told  you  at  the  time." 

"You  did  what  you  thought  was  right,"  she  said  shyly, 
defending  him  against  himself.  "I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  Are  you  going  to  stay  on  here  —  at  the  ranch? 
You  said  you  were,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  we're  footloose  —  me  and  Pete,**  he  said  quickly. 
"We  wouldn't  want  to  bother  you " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean — "  She  stopped,  hardly  knowing 
what,  indeed,  she  had  meant  to  say.  "I  hope  we  shall  be 
friends,"  she  added,  and  again  she  put  out  her  hand  to  him 
half -unconsciously.  He  took  it  this  time. 

"Friends!"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  gruffness  that  con- 
trasted oddly  with  the  youthfulness  of  his  face.  "I  reckon 
I'd  like*  mighty  well  to  sit  in  that  sort  of  a  game  with  you, 
Miss  Dudley.  If,  when  you  know  me,  you'd  just  ask  me 
once  to  chip  in,  I'd  chip  in;  the  cards  couldn't  be  held 
that'd  pass  me  out.  But  it's  not  fair  —  not  fair  to  you.  If 
you  knew  who  you  was  playin'  with,  I  reckon  you'd  have 
nothin'  to  do  with  me.  Maybe  I'm  a  tinhorn ;  maybe  I'm 
meaner'n  a  sheep-herd;  how  can  you  tell  —  a  lady  like 
you,  that  don't  know  and  hadn't  ought  to  know  «bout 
such  things  —  a  lady  that  the  whole  world  is  plum  glad, 
I  reckon,  to  be  a  cyarpet  for  ?  It's  not  fair." 

Remembrance  of  the  half-comprehenied  words  the  other 
man  had  said  came  back  to  her  as  this  one  denied  himself 
virtue,  and  she  looked  away; 


224  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

He  seemed  to  understand. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "that  anything 
Big  Ed  says  about  me  goes.  I  wouldn't  —  I  wouldn't 
want — " 

"Was  you  wanting  me  ? "  interrupted  a  voice.  Out  of  the 
gloom  appeared  the  man  of  whom  he  was  speaking.  "If  it 
was  anyways  convenient  —  couldn't  you  give  me  a  knock- 
down to  your  friend  ?  "  he  repeated.  *d| 

The  girl  and  the  boy  sprang  apart,  but  as^he  approached 
she  drew  near  to  the  younger  man  again  instinctively,  f 

"I  reckon  you'd  best  mosey,"  said  the  boy  quietly. 

"If  it  was  anyways  convenient  — "  began  the  man  again, 
smiling  his  evil  smile. 

The  boy  drove  it  back  upon  his  teeth,  and  Big  Ed 
dropped. 

"Yes;  better  mosey,"  said  the  boy  again,  through  tight 
lips.  "Do  not  mind  him,  Miss ;  he  is  only  joking."  Big  Ed 
rose  and  vanished,  the  boy  looking  after  him.  "Do  not 
mind  him,"  he  repeated  soothingly.  "You  see,  he  does  not 
know  who,  you  are,  or  he  would  not  be  saucy."  His  voice 
was  tendeP'as  a  woman's. 

They  walked  to  the  door  of  the  shack,  and  he  bowed  a 
good-night. 

"I  —  I  think  I'm  a  little  —  a  little  afraid,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"He  was  joking,"  the  boy  said  again.  "He  knows  — 
now." 

"Are  you — are  you  going  to  explain  to  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Miss;  I'll  tell  him  who  you  are;  that's  all,  you 
see/'  He  bowed  again  and  closed  the  door. 

would  not  come  to  her,  though  she  was  very  tired. 
The  patron  saint  coughed  monotonously  on  throughout 
the  night ;  a  coyote  on  a  hill  howled  tenaciously ;  and  when 
he  ceased,  and  the  thrw>  of  the  engine  had  wrought  itself 
innoticeably  into  the  woof  of  the  stillness,  there  recurred 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  225 

another  sound,  faint,  yet  persistent,  which  summoned  her 
wide  awake,  and  kept  her  so.  It  went  ind  came;  now  it 
was  unheard,  now  close  by  again,  tapping,  tapping,  stealth- 
ily. She  had  barred  her  door  and  fastened  her  windows 
shut  before  she  lay  down,  and  the  room  was  very  hot.  The 
night  was  endless  !  At  last  she  could  endure  that  sound  no 
longer,  and,  slipping  from  her  bed,  she  stole  in  her  bare 
feet  to  the  window,  and  pushing  aside  the  curtain  ever  so 
little,  peered  fearfully\mt.  The  moon  was  up.  and  turned 
the  coral  plains  to  silver.  Before  the  shack  she  saw  the  boy 
standing,  looking  away  into  the  colorless  night  As  she 
watched  him,  he  began  his  steady  tramping  up  and  down, 
up  and  down.  His  face  was  visible  in  the  moonlight,  hard 
and  set,  so  that  it  frightened  her.  Yet  she  remained  look- 
ing at  him,  fascinated ;  her  breath,  which  had  been  coming 
in  silent  gasps,  softened  and  grew  regular,  and  her  heart 
left  off  the  nervous  rapidity  of  its  hammering.  Tears  came 
into  her  eyes.  Presently  she  crept  back  to  bed,  leaving  that 
silent  sentinel  to  his  vigil  under  the  purple-black  sky,  and, 
after  a  little,  she  slept  soundly. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  slept,  when  she  was 
awakened,  sharply,  as  if  the  veil  of  her  sleep,  instead  of 
being  lifted,  had  been  torn  across.  She  lay  palpitating, 
fancying  that  she  had  heard  voices  in  alternations.  Sud- 
denly a  shot  was  fired,  then  another,  close  to  the  shack. 
She  cowered  in  the  bed,  vibrant  with  horror.  She  knew 
that  if  for  an  instant  she  should  draw  the  quilt  froiA  Tier 
mouth,  where  she  had  stuffed  it,  she  would  be  screaming. 
Then  a  voice,  the  boy's  voice,  said,  gently,  at  the  door  : 

"Excuse  me,  Miss ;  if  maybe  you're  awake,  I  wanted  to 
say  don't  be  scared ;  it  was  a  coyote  I  had  to  shoot.  I  know 
I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it." 

The  throb  of  the  engine  resumed  its  place  in  the  silence. 
Her  fears  sank,  but  her  horror  remained.  She  fancied  that 
she  heard  in  her  ears  a  cry  which  no  coyote  ever  gave.  The 


226  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

chill  wjiiqh  comes  before  the  dawn  was  in  the  air.  At  last 
the  sun*  rose  and  found  her  dressed  and  shivering. 

The  noiseless  Chinaman  served  her  breakfast,  as  he  had 
served  her  supper.  She  could  not  eat,  but,  when  he  had 
deferentially  bowed  and  departed,  she  made  a  pretense. 
She  was  sitting  at  the  table  when  a  knock  came,  and  the 
boy  entered.  His  face  was  unchanged  by  his  night's  watch. 

"Good  morning,"  she  tried  to  say,  rising  quickly  as  he 
came  in. 

"And  to  you,  Miss." 

"Won't  you  —  sit  down  ?" 

"I  thank  you.  I  reckon  we'll  have  to  be  movin',  Miss." 

"Yes."  She  comprehended  his  meaning  by  one  of  those 
flashes  of  understanding*!!!  which  all  that  has  passed  seems 
to  gather  to  one  focus.  "My  uncle?"  she  asked  trem- 
blingly, i 

"I  reckon  I'd  best  explain  it  to  you  going  in,  hadn't  I  ?" 

"Now,"  she  insisted.  "Where  have  you  brought  me  to  ? 
Where  is  my  uncle?  What  is  this  place?"  She  kept  her 
eyes  on  his,  flutteringly,  like  a  bird's. 

"This  is  the  Bar  K  ranch,"  he  said  dutifully.  "You 
didn't  think—-" 

"  My  uncle  —  Mr.  Gage  ?  " 

"Your  uncle  is  dead,  Miss  Dudley,"  he  replied  somberly. 

The  place  reeled  in  red  circles  around  her,  and  he  caught 
her  as  she  was  falling. 

"Dead?" 

"Yes."  j  7 

"It  can't  be;  it  can't  be !"  she  cried.  "I  have  his  let- 
ters—" 

The  boy  told  her  obediently  and  mechanically.  "He 
went  out  Tuesday  was  a  week.  When  he  didn't  come  back 
that  night,  we  went  to  look  for  him.  It  ain't  safe  to  leave 
them  go  more  than  one  night,  ever."  His  eyes  swept  that 
merciless  ruddy  plain.  "We  found  him,  Miss.  He'd  turned 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  227 

down  the  wrong  arroyo,  you  see,  and  then  he  couldn't 
seem  to  get  straight  again.  Sometimes  it  is  hard  so  to  do. 
Well  —  I  reckon,  that's  all." 

"So,  yesterday,  you  were  telling  me — "  She  left  the 
sentence  unfinished.,  ; 

For  the  first  time  that  morning,  his  face  showed  emo- 
tion. His  lips  twitched,  and  his  words  came  a  little  jerkily. 

"That  was  bad.  But  I  couldn't  think  what  was  best  to 
do,  and  I  didn't  want  to  worry  you  out  there.  I  hadn't  no 
excuse,  no  right  excuse,  that  is,  such  as  would  be  fit  and 
proper.  It  was  partly  seeing  you,  Miss ;  I  hadn't  seen  a 
lady  like  you,  not  for  a  long  time.  Never.  And  —  you  was 
wanting  to  come  right  to  this  ranch ;  and  I  knew  I  could 
make  it  safe  and  ^comfortable  for  you,  this  night,  better 
than  down  then*  dt  Duke's.  So  — " 

"I'm  ready,"  she  said.  "When  does  the  train  go?" 

"East  or  west,  Miss?" 

"East." 

"  I  supposed  you'd  be  taking  that  one.  At  ten  o'clock." 

"Must  I  ride  in  —  like  yesterday?" 

"No,  Miss.  There  is  a  wagon.  But  I'm  afraid  I'll  have 
to  go  with  you.  There's  nobody  else,  I  reckon,  I  can  trust. 
I  know  it  ain't  gentleman-like." 

The  girl  took  the  place  that  he  pointed  out  in  the  light 
wagon.  She  was  moving  like  a  person  in  a  dream.  She 
hardly  even  knew  why  she  had  stared  at  him  so  eagerly 
when  he  entered,  nor  why  she  had  drawn  that  long  breath 
of  relief  when  she  perceived  that  he  was  unhurt.  She 
thought  she  abhorred  him ;  she  thought  that  her  only  wish 
was  never  to  see  him  again,  to  get  away,  to  escape,  to  leave 
behind  her  this  country  of  death.  They  drove  through 
clouds  of  dust,  which  rose  and  settled  upon  them.  The  old, 
bad,  pmk  buttes  glimmered  at  them  maliciously  in  the 
heaving  distance,  seeming  to  beckon  to  the  girl,  to  lure  her 
on  as  they  had  lured  her  uncle.  Their  beauty  was  dead ; 


228  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

\ 

they  grinned  like  skeletons.  She  had  been  driving  forever, 
it"seemed  to  her,  over  slopes  and  through  red  river-beds 
as  dry  as  bones.  Not  even  a  bird  hung  in  the  blue,  not  even 
a  rabbit  loped  away  listlessly  before  them ;  theirs  was  the 
only  life  in  the  desert.  The  sun  smote  upon  them,  now  from 
the  side,  now  in  their  faces,  now  upon  their  backs.  Where 
she  was,  whither  she  was  going,  she  did  not  know.  Yet  she 
was  not  afraid,  as  she  had  been  before  —  only  dull  and 
careless  of  what  happened  to  her.  She  was  hardly  mpre^a 
part  of  the  world,  the  living,  spinning  world,  than  the  bit 
of  sandstone  they  were  passing.  They  passed  it ;  she  looked 
at  her  guide  —  and  there  was  Duke's  asleep  in  the  hot  sun, 
amidst  the  rose-red,  sun-beaten,  grassless,  treeless,  water- 
less hills,  as  it  had  been  yesterday,  and  should  be  to-mor- 
row. But  she  did  not  see  it,  for  as  it  came  in  sight  the  boy's 
face  paled,  and  he  dropped  the  reins. 

"  I  reckon  you  can  find  —  your  —  way  —  now,"  he  said, 
and  his  eyes  closed  peacefully.  "I've — "  He  toppled 
toward  her,  and  she  had  to  put  her  arms  around  him. 

"What  is  it  ?  what  is  it  ? "  she  cried  wildly. 

HisCfeyes  opened  slowly.  "That  coyote  —  bit  me,"  he 
murmured,  and  they  closed  again. 

The  ponies,  left  to  themselves,  stopped.  They  had 
reached  Duke's.  She  got  water  from  the  perishing  creek 
and  bathed  his  head,  and  then,  taking  off  her  hat,  she  sat 
and  fanned  him.  Presently  he  revived  again,  and  under 
his  direction  she  found  his  flask  and  gave  him  whiskey. 

"I  —  I  —  didn't  know  I  was  such  a  dern  fool,"  he 
whispered. 

"Hush!"  she  said.  "You  mustn't  talk." 

"I  saw  this  morning,"  he  answered  irrelevantly,  "that 
you  knew  I  was  lying  to  you  last  night  about  that  coyote. 
But  I  guess  you  was  deceived  then  ? " 

"No,"  she  said  quickly;  "I  knew.  I  heard  —  but  I 
thought  you  weren't  hurt." 


THE  GIRL  AT  DUKE'S  229 

"Don't  you  be  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "I  wasn't  hurt 
bad  —  I  ain't  lying  to  you  now.  I  reckon  I  just  keeled  over 
with  the  sun  —  me  being  a  fool." 

"If  you  would  get  into  the  shade — "  she  said  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"Don't  you  be  good  to  me,"  he  repeated.  But  he  moved 
obediently  as  she  suggested. 

"  JTiiat  train'll  be  along  soon  now,"  he  said.  "We  have  to 
flagit,  you  know,  Miss.  Naturally,  it  don't  stop." 

"I  know." 

"  I  reckon  you'll  be  going  back  to  your  folks  ?  "  he  asked 
at  length. 

"There  was  only  my  uncle,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Well,  a  lady  like  you  has  got  plenty  of  friends  every- 
where." 

"And  yet  you  wouldn't  be  friends  — " 

"Friends  !"  he  interrupted  her.  "You're  goin*  away  so 
soon  now  I  reckon  it  wouldn't  be  playing  it  low-down  if  I 
was  to  tell  you  — " 

"You  oughtn't  to  talk,"  she  repeated. 

"I  can't  help  myself,  Miss.  I've  gqt^to  say  this.  I  told 
you  I  might  be  trash,  and  if  you  was'fo  be  staying  here  I 
wouldn't  say  a  word  more.  But  I  can't  let  you  go  away 
thinkin'  that  what  he  said  was  true  —  Big  Ed  — " 

"Stop!"  she  cried.  "Did  you  — did  you  — kill  him?" 
She  looked  at  him  beseechingly,  her  eyes  praying. 

But  he  answered  sadly :  "  You  can't  understand,  Miss. 
He  miscomprehended  right  at  first,  and  there  weren't  any 
chance  to  put  him  straight.  He  miscomprehended."  The 
boy's  eyes  turned  back  towards  the  Bar  K,  and  Dorothy 
knew  clearly  that  his  words  were  Big  Ed's  epitaph.  "You 
can't  understand,"  he  repeated. 

"  I  never  thought  what  he  said  was  true,"  she  said. 

The  boy's  face  lightened,  then  fell  into  gloom  again. 

"No,"  he  answered  to  himself,  "how  could  you  under- 


230  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

stand  him  —  a  lady  like  you  ?  Well,  I  reckon  I  must  be 
movm'."  He  tried  to  rise,  but  she  restrained  him. 

"No,  no!  I  —  am  afraid." 

"It'll  be  here  right  soon,  now,"  he  said  gently. 

"Oh,  if  you  wish  to  go,  go !"  she  sobbed  suddenly.  "I 
can  flag  the  train ;  I  can  wait  here  alone.  I  would  rather 
wait  than  have  you  stay  !  Go,  go  ! " 

^£*  I  saw  you  here  yesterday,"  he  whispered,  "and  it  was 
like 1 1  saw  an  angel  —  an  angel  from  heaven.  Yes,  I'll  go, 
Miss;  I  know  how  I  must  be  annoy  in'  you  by  my  words. 
But  would  it  be  playing  lowdown  to  say  why  I  wouldn't 
be  friends  as  you  have  said  ?  Would  I  dare  take  a  hand  in 
that  there  game  ?  What  do  I  do  first  ?  I  lie  to  you  —  lie  to 
you  about  your  uncle,  a  gentleman  who  has  been  kindly 
to  me.  Say  I  mean  you  no  harm.  But  what  do  I  do  ?  I  lie. 
How  do  I  cjare  be  friends  with  you  after  that  ?  Friends  — 
why,  I  ougnt  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,  I  know ;  you  willnot 
speak  to  me,  Miss ;  but  —  it's  not  friendship's  been  in  my 
heart  since  I've  seen  you  ! " 

She  did  not  withdraw  her  eyes  from  his,  and  he  went  on, 
more  and  more  rapidly  : 

"I'm  older  than  I  look,  I  reckon.  I'm  twenty-six.  I've 
seen  a  lot  of  things  —  things  that  you  wouldn't  ever  hear 
about.  But  I  do  not  think  I  ever  did  a  mean  trick.  I've 
been  honest  —  till  yesterday ;  and  then  it  had  to  be  you  I 
lied  to  —  you.  Well,  I  reckon  I  will  be  goin',  now." 

"Are  you-4 —  are  you  going  to  leave  me  ? "  she  asked  for- 
lornly. "Won't  you  —  stay  ? "  She  knelt  beside  him,  and 
his  arm  closed  around  her.  The  east-bound  train,  on  time 
for  a  wonder,  swept  unflagged  in  a  whirl  of  dust  through 
Duke's,  and  passengers  looking  from  the  windows  saw  the 
two  there,  and  laughed  a  little, 


LOVE  OF  LIFE* 
BY  JACK  LONDON 

"  This  out  of  all  mil  remain  — 

They  have  lived  and  have  tossed: 
So  much  of  the  game  will  be  gain, 

Though  the  gold  of  the  dice  has  been  lost" 

THEY  limped  painfully  down  the  bank,  and  once  the  fore- 
most of  the  two  men  staggered  among  the  rough-strewn 
rocks.  They  were  tired  and  weak,  and  their  faces  had  the 
drawn  expression  of  patience  which  comes  of  hardship  long 
endured.  They  were  heavily  burdened  with  blanket  packs 
which  were  strapped  to  their  shoulders.  Head-straps,  pass- 
ing across  the  forehead,  helped  support  these  packs.  Each 
man  carried  a  rifle.  They  walked  in  a  stooped  posture,  the 
shoulders  well  forward,  the  head  still  farther  forward,  the 
eyes  bent  upon  the  ground. 

"  I  wish  we  had  just  about  two  of  them  cartridges  that's 
layin'  in  that  cache  of  ourn,"  said  the  second  man. 

His  voice  was  utterly  and  drearily  expressionless.  He 
spoke  without  enthusiasm ;  but  the  first  man,  limping  into 
the  milky  stream  that  foamed  over  the  rocks,  vouchsafed 
no  reply. 

The  other  man  followed  at  his  heels.  They  did  not  re- 
move their  footgear,  though  the  water  was  icy  cold  —  so 
cold  that  their  ankles  ached  and  their  feet  went  numb. 
In  places  the  water  dashed  against  their  knees,  and  both 
men  staggered  for  footing. 

The  man  who  followed  slipped  on  a  smooth  boulder, 
nearly  fell,  but  recovered  himself  with  a  violent  effort,  at 
the  same  time  uttering  a  sharp  exclamation  of  pain.  He 

i  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Love  of  Life  and  Other  Stories,  by  Jack 
London.  Copyright,  1910,  by  the  Macmillan  Company. 


232  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 


seemed  faint  and  dizzy,  and  put  out  his  free  hand  while  he 
reeled,  as  though  seeking  support  against  the  air.  When  he 
had  steadied  himself  he  stepped  forward,  but  reeled  again 
and  nearly  fell.  Then  he  stood  still  and  looked  at  the  other 
man,  who  had  never  turned  his  head. 
-  The  man  stood  still  for  fully  a  minute,  as  though  debat- 
ing with  himself.  Then  he  called  out : 

"I  say,  Bill,  I've  sprained  my  ankle." 

Bill  staggered  on  through  the  milky  water.  He  did  not 
look  around.  The  man  watched  him  go,  and  though  his 
face  was  expressionless  as  ever,  his  eyes  were  like  the  eyes 
of  a  wounded  deer. 

The  other  man  limped  up  the  farther  bank  and  contin- 
ued straight  on  without  looking  back.  The  man  in  the 
stream  watched  him.  His  lips  trembled  a  little,  so  that  the 
rough  thatch  of  brown  hair  which  covered  them  was  vis- 
ibly agitated.  His  tongue  even  strayed  out  to  moisten 
them. 

"Bill!"  he  cried  out. 

It  was  the  pleading  cry  of  a  strong  man  in  distress,  but 
Bill's  head  did  not  turn.  The  man  watched  him  go,  limp- 
ing grotesquely  and  lurching  forward  with  stammering  gait 
up  the  slow  slope  toward  the  soft  sky-line  of  the  low-lying 
hill.  He  watched  him  go  till  he  passed  over  the  crest  and 
disappeared.  Then  he  turned  his  gaze  and  slowly  took  in 
the  circle  of  the  world  that  remained  to  him  now  that  Bill 
was  gone. 

Near  the  horizon  the  sun  was  smoldering  dimly,  almost 
obscured  by  formless  mists  and  vapors,  which  gave  an 
impression  of  mass  and  density  without  outline  or  tangi- 
bility. The  man  pulled  out  his  watch,  the  while  resting  his 
weight  on  one  leg.  It  was  four  o'clock,  and  as  the  season 
was  near  the  last  of  July  or  first  of  August  —  he  did  not 
know  the  precise  date  within  a  week  or  two  —  he  knew 
that  the  sun  roughly  marked  the  northwest.  He  looked  to 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  233 

the  south  and  knew  that  somewhere  beyond  those  bleak 
hills  lay  the  Great  Bear  Lake ;  also,  he  knew  that  in  that 
direction  the  Arctic  Circle  cut  its  forbidding  way  across 
the  Canadian  Barrens.  This  stream  in  which  he  stood  was 
a  feeder  to  the  Coppermine  River,  which  in  turn  flowed 
north  and  emptied  into  Coronation  Gulf  and  the  Arctic 
Ocean.  He  had  never  been  there,  but  he  had  seen  it,  once, 
on  a  Hudson  Bay  Company  chart. 

Again  his  gaze  completed  the  circle  of  the  world  about 
him.  It  was  not  a  heartening  spectacle.  Everywhere  was 
soft  sky-line.  The  hills  were  all  low-lying.  There  were  no 
trees,  no  shrubs,  no  grasses — naught  but  a  tremendous 
and  terrible  desolation  that  sent  fear  swiftly  dawning  into 
his  eyes. 

"Bill !"  he  whispered,  once  and  twice ;  "Bill !" 

He  cowered  in  the  midst  of  the  milky  water,  as  though 
the  vastness  were  pressing  in  upon  him  with  overwhelming 
force,  brutally  crushing  him  with  its  complacent  awf ulness. 
He  began  to  shake  as  with  an  ague-fit,  till  the  gun  fell  from 
his  hand  with  a  splash.  This  served  to  rouse  him.  He 
fought  with  his  fear  and  pulled  himself  together,  groping 
in  the  water  and  recovering  the  weapon.  He  hitched  his 
pack  farther  over  on  his  left  shoulder,  so  as  to  take  a  por- 
tion of  its  weight  from  off  the  injured  ankle.  Then  he  pro- 
ceeded, slowly  and  carefully,  wincing  with  pain,  to  the 
bank. 

He  did  not  stop.  With  a  desperation  that  was  madness, 
unmindful  of  the  pain,  he  hurried  up  the  slope  to  the  crest 
of  the  hill  over  which  his  comrade  had  disappeared  —  more 
grotesque  and  comical  by  far  than  that  limping,  jerking 
comrade.  But  at  the  crest  he  saw  a  shallow  valley,  empty 
of  life.  He  fought  with  his  fear  again,  overcame  it,  hitched 
the  pack  still  farther  over  on  his  left  shoulder,  and  lurched 
on  down  the  slope. 

The  bottom  of  the  valley  was  soggy  with  water,  which 


234  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

the  thick  moss  held,  sponge-like,  close  to  the  surface.  This 
water  squirted  out  from  under  his  feet  at  every  step,  and 
each  time  he  lifted  a  foot  the  action  culminated  in  a  suck- 
ing sound  as  the  wet  moss  reluctantly  released  its  grip. 
He  picked  his  way  from  muskeg  to  muskeg,  and  followed 
the  other  man's  footsteps  along  and  across  the  rocky  ledges 
which  thrust  like  islets  through  the  sea  of  moss. 

Though  alone  he  was  not  lost.  Farther  on  he  knew  he 
would  come  to  where  dead  spruce  and  fir,  very  small  and 
weazened,  bordered  the  shore  of  a  little  lake,  the  tit-chin- 
nichilie  —  in  the  tongue  of  the  country,  the  "land  of  little 
sticks."  And  into  that  lake  flowed  a  small  stream,  the 
water  of  which  was  not  milky.  There  was  rush-grass  on 
that  stream  —  this  he  remembered  well  —  but  no  timber, 
and  he  would  follow  it  till  its  first  trickle  ceased  at  a  divide. 
He  would  cross  this  divide  to  the  first  trickle  of  another 
stream,  flowing  to  the  west,  which  he  would  follow  until 
it  emptied  into  the  River  Dease,  and  here  he  would  find  a 
cache  under  an  upturned  canoe  and  piled  over  with  many 
rocks.  And  in  this  cache  would  be  ammunition  for  his 
empty  gun,  fish-hooks  and  lines,  a  small  net  —  all  the 
utilities  for  the  killing  and  snaring  of  food.  Also,  he  would 
find  flour  —  not  much  —  a  piece  of  bacon  and  some  beans. 

Bill  would  be  waiting  for  him  there,  and  they  would 
paddle  away  south  down  the  Dease  to  the  Great  Bear  Lake. 
And  south  across  the  lake  they  would  go,  ever  south,  till 
they  gained  the  Mackenzie.  And  south,  still  south,  they 
would  go,  while  the  winter  raced  vainly  after  them,  and 
the  ice  formed  in  the  eddies,  and  the  days  grew  chill  and 
crisp,  south  to  some  warm  Hudson  Bay  Company  post, 
where  timber  grew  tall  and  generous  and  there  was  grub 
without  end. 

These  were  the  thoughts  of  the  man  as  he  strove  onward. 
But  hard  as  he  strove  with  his  body,  he  strove  equally  hard 
with  his  mind,  trying  to  think  that  Bill  had  not  deserted 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  235 

him,  that  Bill  would  surely  wait  for  him  at  the  cache.  He 
was  compelled  to  think  this  thought,  or  else  there  would 
not  be  any  use  to  strive,  and  he  would  have  lain  down  and 
died.  And  as  the  dim  ball  of  the  sun  sank  slowly  into  the 
northwest  he  covered  every  inch,  and  many  times,  of  his 
and  Bill's  flight  south  before  the  downcoming  winter.  And 
he  conned  the  grub  of  the  cache  and  the  grub  of  the  Hudson 
Bay  Company  post  over  and  over  again.  He  had  not  eaten 
for  two  days;  for  a  far  longer  time  he  had  not  had  all  he 
wanted  to  eat.  Often  he  stooped  and  picked  pale  muskeg 
berries,  put  them  into  his  mouth  and  chewed  and  swal- 
lowed them.  A  muskeg  berry  is  a  bit  of  seed  enclosed  in  a 
bit  of  water.  In  the  mouth  the  water  melts  away  and  the 
seed  chews  sharp  and  bitter.  The  man  knew  there  was  no 
nourishment  in  the  berries,  but  he  chewed  them  patiently 
with  a  hope  greater  than  knowledge  and  defying  expe- 
rience. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  stubbed  his  toe  on  a  rocky  ledge,  and 
from  sheer  weariness  and  weakness  staggered  and  fell  He 
lay  for  some  time,  without  movement,  on  his  side.  Then 
he  slipped  out  of  the  pack-straps  and  clumsily  dragged 
himself  into  a  sitting  posture.  It  was  not  yet  dark,  and  in 
the  lingering  twilight  he  groped  about  among  the  rocks  for 
shreds  of  dry  moss.  When  he  had  gathered  a  heap  he  built 
a  fire  —  a  smoldering,  smudgy  fire  —  and  put  a  tin  pot  of 
water  on  to  boil. 

He  unwrapped  his  pack,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to 
count  his  matches.  There  were  sixty-seven.  He  counted 
them  three  times  to  make  sure.  He  divided  them  into  sev- 
eral portions,  wrapping  them  in  oil  paper,  disposing  of  one 
bunch  in  his  empty  tobacco  pouch,  of  another  bunch  in  the 
inside  band  of  his  battered  hat,  of  a  third  bunch  under  his 
shirt  on  the  chest.  This  accomplished,  a  panic  came  upon 
him  and  he  unwrapped  them  all  and  counted  them  again. 
There  were  still  sixty-seven. 


236  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

He  dried  his  wet  footgear  by  the  fire.  The  moccasins 
were  in  soggy  shreds.  The  blanket  socks  were  worn 
through  in  places,  and  his  feet  were  raw  and  bleeding.  His 
ankle  was  throbbing  and  he  gave  it  an  examination.  It  had 
swollen  to  the  size  of  his  knee.  He  tore  a  long  strip  from 
one  of  his  two  blankets  and  bound  the  ankle  tightly.  He 
tore  other  strips  and  bound  them  about  his  feet  to  serve  for 
both  moccasins  and  socks.  Then  he  drank  the  pot  of  water, 
steaming  hot,  wound  his  watch,  and  crawled  between  his 
blankets. 

He  slept  like  a  dead  man.  The  brief  darkness  around 
midnight  came  and  went.  The  sun  arose  in  the  northeast  — 
at  least  the  day  dawned  in  that  quarter,  for  the  sun  was 
hidden  by  gray  clouds. 

At  six  o'clock  he  awoke,  quietly  lying  on  his  back.  He 
gazed  straight  up  into  the  gray  sky  and  knew  that  he  was 
hungry.  As  he  rolled  over  on  his  elbow  he  was  startled  by  a 
loud  snort,  and  saw  a  bull  caribou  regarding  him  with  alert 
curiosity.  The  animal  was  not  more  than  fifty  feet  away, 
and  instantly  into  the  man's  mind  leaped  the  vision  and 
the  savor  of  a  caribou  steak  sizzling  and  frying  over  a  fire. 
Mechanically  he  reached  for  the  empty  gun,  drew  a  bead, 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  bull  snorted  and  leaped  away, 
his  hoofs  rattling  and  clattering  as  he  fled  across  the  ledges. 

The  man  cursed  and  flung  the  empty  gun  from  him.  He 
groaned  aloud  as  he  started  to  drag  himself  to  his  feet.  It 
was  a  slow  and  arduous  task.  His  joints  were  like  rusty 
hinges.  They  worked  harshly  in  their  sockets,  with  much 
friction,  and  each  bending  or  unbending  was  accomplished 
only  through  a  sheer  exertion  of  will.  When  he  finally 
gained  his  feet,  another  minute  or  so  was  consumed  in 
straightening  up,  so  that  he  could  stand  erect  as  a  man 
should  stand. 

He  crawled  up  a  small  knoll  and  surveyed  the  prospect. 
There  were  no  trees,  no  bushes,  nothing  but  a  gray  sea  of 


LOVE  OF. LIFE  237 

moss  scarcely  diversified  by  gray  rocks,  gray-colored  lake- 
lets, and  gray  streamlets.  The  sky  was  gray.  There  was 
no  sun  or  hint  of  sun.  He  had  no  idea  of  north,  and  he  had 
forgotten  the  way  he  had  come  to  this  spot  the  night  before. 
But  he  was  not  lost.  He  knew  that.  Soon  he  would  come 
to  the  land  of  the  little  sticks.  He  felt  that  it  lay  off  to  the 
left  somewhere,  not  far  —  possibly  just  over  the  next  low 
hill. 

He  went  back  to  put  his  pack  into  shape  for  traveling. 
He  assured  himself  of  the  existence  of  his  three  separate 
parcels  of  matches,  though  he  did  not  stop  to  count  them. 
But  he  did  linger,  debating,  over  a  squat  moose-hide  sack. 
It  was  not  large.  He  could  hide  it  under  his  two  hands. 
He  knew  that  it  weighed  fifteen  pounds  —  as  much  as  all 
the  rest  of  the  pack  —  and  it  worried  him.  He  finally  set 
it  to  one  side  and  proceeded  to  roll  the  pack.  He  paused 
to  gaze  at  the  squat  moose-hide  sack.  He  picked  it  up 
hastily  with  a  defiant  glance  about  him,  as  though  the 
desolation  were  trying  to  rob  him  of  it ;  and  when  he  rose 
to  his  feet  to  stagger  on  into  the  day,  it  was  included  in  the 
pack  on  his  back. 

He  bore  away  to  the  left,  stopping  now  and  again  to  eat 
muskeg  berries.  His  ankle  had  stiffened,  his  limp  was  more 
pronounced,  but  the  pain  of  it  was  as  nothing  compared 
with  the  pain  of  his  stomach.  The  hunger  pangs  were 
sharp.  They  gnawed  and  gnawed  until  he  could  not  keep 
his  mind  steady  on  the  course  he  must  pursue  to  gain  the 
land  of  little  sticks.  The  muskeg  berries  did  not  allay  this 
gnawing,  while  they  made  his  tongue  and  the  roof  of  his 
mouth  sore  with  their  irritating  bite. 

He  came  upon  a  valley  where  rock  ptarmigan  rose  on 
whirring  wings  from  the  ledges  and  muskegs.  Ker  —  ker  — 
her  was  the  cry  they  made.  He  threw  stones  at  them,  but 
could  not  hit  them.  He  placed  his  pack  on  the  ground  and 
stalked  them  as  a  cat  stalks  a  sparrow.  The  sharp  rocks 


238  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

cut  through  his  pants'  legs  till  his  knees  left  a  trail  of  blood ; 
but  the  hurt  was  lost  in  the  hurt  of  his  hunger.  He 
squirmed  over  the  wet  moss,  saturating  his  clothes  and 
chilling  his  body ;  but  he  was  not  aware  of  it,  so  great  was 
his  fever  for  food.  And  always  the  ptarmigan  rose,  whir- 
ring, before  him,  till  their  ker — ker — ker  became  a  mock 
to  him,  and  he  cursed  them  and  cried  aloud  at  them  with 
their  own  cry. 

Once  he  crawled  upon  one  that  must  have  been  asleep. 
He  did  not  see  it  till  it  shot  up  in  his  face  from  its  rocky 
nook.  He  made  a  clutch  as  startled  as  was  the  rise  of  the 
ptarmigan,  and  there  remained  in  his  hand  three  tail- 
feathers.  As  he  watched  its  flight  he  hated  it,  as  though  it 
had  done  him  some  terrible  wrong.  Then  he  returned  and 
shouldered  his  pack. 

As  the  day  wore  along  he  came  into  valleys  or  swales 
where  game  was  more  plentiful.  A  band  of  caribou  passed 
by,  twenty  and  odd  animals,  tantalizingly  within  rifle 
range.  He  felt  a  wild  desire  to  run  after  them,  a  certitude 
that  he  could  run  them  down.  A  black  fox  came  toward 
him,  carrying  a  ptarmigan  in  his  mouth.  The  man  shouted. 
It  was  a  fearful  cry,  but  the  fox  leaping  away  in  fright  did 
not  drop  the  ptarmigan. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  followed  a  stream,  milky  with 
lime,  which  ran  through  sparse  patches  of  rush-grass. 
Grasping  these  rushes  firmly  near  the  root,  he  pulled  up 
what  resembled  a  young  onion-sprout  no  larger  than  a 
shingle-nail.  It  was  tender  and  his  teeth  sank  into  it  with  a 
crunch  that  promised  deliciously  of  food.  But  its  fibers 
were  tough.  It  was  composed  of  stringy  filaments  satu- 
rated with  water,  like  the  berries,  and  devoid  of  nourish- 
ment. But  he  threw  off  his  pack  and  went  into  the  rush- 
grass  on  hands  and  knees,  crunching  and  munching,  like 
some  bovine  creature. 

He  was  very  weary  and  often  wished  to  rest  —  to  lie 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  239 

down  and  sleep ;  but  he  was  continually  driven  on  —  not  so 
much  by  his  desire  to  gain  the  land  of  little  sticks  as  by  his 
hunger.  He  searched  little  ponds  for  frogs  and  dug  up  the 
earth  with  his  nails  for  worms,  though  he  knew  in  spite 
that  neither  frogs  nor  worms  existed  so  far  north. 

He  looked  into  every  pool  of  water  vainly,  until,  as  the 
long  twilight  came  on,  he  discovered  a  solitary  fish,  the 
size  of  a  minnow,  in  such  a  pool.  He  plunged  his  arm  in  up 
to  the  shoulder,  but  it  eluded  him.  He  reached  for  it  with 
both  hands  and  stirred  up  the  milky  mud  at  the  bottom. 
In  his  excitement  he  fell  in,  wetting  himself  to  the  waist. 
Then  the  water  was  too  muddy  to  admit  of  his  seeing  the 
fish,  and  he  was  compelled  to  wait  until  the  sediment  had 
settled. 

The  pursuit  was  renewed,  till  the  water  was  again 
muddied.  But  he  could  not  wait.  He  unstrapped  the  tin 
bucket  and  began  to  bale  the  pool.  He  baled  wildly  at  first, 
splashing  himself  and  flinging  the  water  so  short  a  distance 
that  it  ran  back  into  the  pool.  He  worked  more  carefully, 
striving  to  be  cool,  though  his  heart  was  pounding  against 
his  chest  and  his  hands  were  trembling.  At  the  end  of  half 
an  hour  the  pool  was  nearly  dry.  Not  a  cupful  of  water  re- 
mained. And  there  was  no  fish.  He  found  a  hidden  crevice 
among  the  stones  through  which  it  had  escaped  to  the  ad- 
joining and  larger  pool  —  a  pool  which  he  could  not  empty 
in  a  night  and  a  day.  Had  he  known  of  the  crevice,  he 
could  have  closed  it  with  a  rock  at  the  beginning  and  the 
fish  would  have  been  his. 

Thus  he  thought,  and  crumpled  up  and  sank  down  upon 
the  wet  earth.  At  first  he  cried  softly  to  himself,  then  he 
cried  loudly  to  the  pitiless  desolation  that  ringed  him 
around;  and  for  a  long  time  after  he  was  shaken  by  great 
dry  sobs. 

He  built  a  fire  and  warmed  himself  by  drinking  quarts  of 
hot  water,  and  made  camp  on  a  rocky  ledge  in  the  same 


240  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

fashion  he  had  the  night  before.  The  last  thing  he  did  was 
to  see  that  his  matches  were  dry  and  to  wind  his  watch. 
The  blankets  were  wet  and  clammy.  His  ankle  pulsed  with 
pain.  But  he  knew  only  that  he  was  hungry,  and  through 
his  restless  sleep  he  dreamed  of  feasts  and  banquets  and  of 
food  served  and  spread  in  all  imaginable  ways. 

He  awoke  chilled  and  sick.  There  was  no  sun.  The  gray 
of  earth  and  sky  had  become  deeper,  more  profound.  A 
raw  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  first  flurries  of  snow  were 
whitening  the  hill-tops.  The  air  about  him  thickened  and 
grew  white  while  he  made  a  fire  and  boiled  more  water. 
It  was  wet  snow,  half  rain,  and  the  flakes  were  large  and 
soggy.  At  first  they  melted  as  soon  as  they  came  in  con- 
tact with  the  earth,  but  ever  more  fell,  covering  the  ground, 
putting  out  the  fire,  spoiling  his  supply  of  moss-fuel. 

This  was  the  signal  for  him  to  strap  on  his  pack  and 
stumble  onward  he  knew  not  where.  He  was  not  concerned 
with  the  land  of  little  sticks,  nor  with  Bill  and  the  cache 
under  the  upturned  canoe  by  the  River  Dease.  He  was 
mastered  by  the  verb  "to  eat."  He  was  hunger-mad.  He 
took  no  heed  of  the  course  he  pursued,  so  long  as  that 
course  led  him  through  the  swale  bottoms.  He  felt  his  way 
through  the  wet  snow  to  the  watery  muskeg  berries,  and 
went  by  feel  as  he  pulled  up  the  rush-grass  by  the  roots. 
But  it  was  tasteless  stuff  and  did  not  satisfy.  He  found  a 
weed  that  tasted  sour,  and  he  ate  all  he  could  find  of  it, 
which  was  not  much,  for  it  was  a  creeping  growth,  easily 
hidden  under  the  several  inches  of  snow. 

He  had  no  fire  that  night  nor  hot  water,  and  crawled 
under  his  blanket  to  sleep  the  broken  hunger-sleep.  The 
snow  turned  into  a  cold  rain.  He  awakened  many  times  to 
feel  it  falling  on  his  upturned  face.  Day  came  —  a  gray 
day  and  no  sun.  It  had  ceased  raining.  The  keenness  of 
his  hunger  had  departed.  Sensibility,  so  far  as  concerned 
the  yearning  for  food,  had  been  exhausted.  There  was  a 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  Ml 

dull,  heavy  ache  in  his  stomach,  but  it  did  not  bother  him 
so  much.  He  was  more  rational,  and  once  more  he  was 
chiefly  interested  in  the  land  of  little  sticks  and  the  cache 
by  the  River  Dease. 

He  ripped  the  remnant  of  one  of  his  blankets  into  strips 
and  bound  his  bleeding  feet.  Also,  he  recinched  the  in- 
jured ankle  and  prepared  himself  for  a  day  of  travel.  When 
he  came  to  his  pack  he  paused  long  over  the  squat  moose- 
hide  sack,  but  in  the  end  it  went  with  him. 

The  snow  had  melted  under  the  rain  and  only  the  hill- 
tops showed  white.  The  sun  came  out,  and  he  succeeded  in 
locating  the  points  of  the  compass,  though  he  knew  now 
that  he  was  lost.  Perhaps,  in  his  previous  days'  wander- 
ings, he  had  edged  away  too  far  to  the  left.  He  now  bore 
off  to  the  right  to  counteract  the  possible  deviation  from 
his  true  course. 

Though  the  hunger  pangs  were  no  longer  so  exquisite,  he 
realized  that  he  was  weak.  He  was  compelled  to  pause  for 
frequent  rests  when  he  attacked  the  muskeg  berries  and 
rush-grass  patches.  His  tongue  felt  dry  and  large,  as 
though  covered  with  a  fine  hairy  growth,  and  it  tasted 
bitter  in  his  mouth.  His  heart  gave  him  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.  When  he  had  traveled  a  few  minutes  it  would 
begin  a  remorseless  thump,  thump,  thump,  and  then  leap 
up  and  away  in  a  painful  flutter  of  beats  that  choked  him 
and  made  him  go  faint  and  dizzy. 

In  the  middle  of  the  day  he  found  two  minnows  in  a 
large  pool.  It  was  impossible  to  bale  it,  but  he  was  calmer 
now  and  managed  to  catch  them  in  his  tin  bucket.  They 
were  no  longer  than  his  little  finger,  but  he  was  not  particu- 
larly hungry.  The  dull  ache  in  his  stomach  had  been  grow- 
ing duller  and  fainter.  It  seemed  almost  that  his  stomach 
was  dozing.  He  ate  the  fish  raw,  masticating  with  pains- 
taking care,  for  the  eating  was  an  act  of  pure  reason. 
While  he  had  no  desire  to  eat  he  knew  that  he  must  eat 
to  live. 


242  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

In  the  evening  he  caught  three  more  minnows,  eating 
two  and  saving  the  third  for  breakfast.  The  sun  had  dried 
stray  shreds  of  moss,  and  he  was  able  to  warm  himself  with 
hot  water.  He  had  not  covered  more  then  ten  miles  that 
day,  and  the  next  day,  traveling  whenever  his  heart  per- 
mitted him,  he  covered  no  more  than  five  miles.  But  his 
stomach  did  not  give  him  the  slightest  uneasiness.  It  had 
gone  to  sleep.  He  was  in  a  strange  country,  too,  and  the 
caribou  were  growing  more  plentiful,  also  the  wolves. 
Often  their  yelps  drifted  across  the  desolation,  and  once  he 
saw  three  of  them  slinking  away  before  his  path. 

Another  night,  and  in  the  morning,  being  more  rational, 
he  untied  the  leather  string  that  fastened  the  squat  moose- 
hide  sack.  From  its  open  mouth  poured  a  yellow  stream 
of  coarse  gold-dust  and  nuggets.  He  roughly  divided  the 
gold  in  halves,  caching  one  half  on  a  prominent  ledge, 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  blanket,  and  returning  the  other  half 
to  the  sack.  He  also  began  to  use  strips  of  the  one  remain- 
ing blanket  for  his  feet.  He  still  clung  to  his  gun,  for  there 
were  cartridges  in  that  cache  by  the  River  Dease. 

This  was  a  day  of  fog,  and  this  day  hunger  awoke  in 
him  again.  He  was  very  weak  and  was  afflicted  with  a 
giddiness  which  at  times  blinded  him.  It  was  no  uncom- 
mon thing  now  for  him  to  stumble  and  fall ;  and  stumbling 
once,  he  fell  squarely  into  a  ptarmigan  nest.  There  were 
four  newly  hatched  chicks  a  day  old  —  little  specks  of 
pulsating  life  no  more  than  a  mouthful ;  and  he  ate  them 
ravenously,  thrusting  them  alive  into  his  mouth  and  crunch- 
ing them  like  egg-shells  between  his  teeth.  The  mother 
ptarmigan  beat  about  him  with  great  out-cry.  He  used 
his  gun  as  a  club  with  which  to  knock  her  over,  but  she 
dodged  out  of  reach.  He  threw  stones  at  her  and  with  one 
chance  shot  broke  a  wing.  Then  she  fluttered  away,  run- 
ning, trailing  the  broken  wing,  with  him  in  pursuit. 

The  little  chicks  had  no  more  than  whetted  his  appetite. 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  243 

He  hopped  and  bobbed  clumsily  along  on  his  injured  ankle, 
throwing  stones  and  screaming  hoarsely  at  times ;  at  other 
times  hopping  and  bobbing  silently  along,  picking  himself 
up  grimly  and  patiently  when  he  fell,  or  rubbing  his  eyes 
with  his  hand  when  the  giddiness  threatened  to  overpower 
him. 

The  chase  led  him  across  swampy  ground  in  the  bottom 
of  the  valley,  and  he  came  upon  footprints  in  the  soggy 
moss.  They  were  not  his  own  —  he  could  see  that.  They 
must  be  Bill's.  But  he  could  not  stop,  for  the  mother 
ptarmigan  was  running  on.  He  would  catch  her  first,  then 
he  would  return  and  investigate. 

He  exhausted  the  mother  ptarmigan ;  but  he  exhausted 
himself.  She  lay  panting  on  her  side.  He  lay  panting  on  his 
side,  a  dozen  feet  away,  unable  to  crawl  to  her.  And  as  he 
recovered  she  recovered,  fluttering  out  of  reach  as  his  hun- 
gry hand  went  out  to  her.  The  chase  was  resumed.  Night 
settled  down  and  she  escaped.  He  stumbled  from  weakness 
and  pitched  head-foremost  on  his  face,  cutting  his  cheek, 
his  pack  upon  his  back.  He  did  not  move  for  a  long  while ; 
then  he  rolled  over  on  his  side,  wound  his  watch,  and  lay 
there  until  morning. 

Another  day  of  fog.  Half  of  his  last  blanket  had  gone  into 
foot-wrappings.  He  failed  to  pick  up  Bill's  trail.  It  did  not 
matter.  His  hunger  was  driving  him  too  compellingly  — 
only  —  only  he  wondered  if  Bill,  too,  were  lost.  By  mid- 
day the  irk  of  his  pack  became  too  oppressive.  Again  he 
divided  the  gold,  this  time  merely  spilling  half  of  it  on  the 
ground.  In  the  afternoon  he  threw  the  rest  of  it  away, 
there  remaining  to  him  only  the  half-blanket,  the  tin 
bucket,  and  the  rifle. 

An  hallucination  began  to  trouble  him.  He  felt  confident 
that  one  cartridge  remained  to  him.  It  was  in  the  chamber 
of  the  rifle  and  he  had  overlooked  it.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
knew  all  the  time  that  the  chamber  was  empty.  But  the 


244  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

hallucination  persisted.  He  fought  it  off  for  hours,  then 
threw  his  rifle  open  and  was  confronted  with  emptiness. 
The  disappointment  was  as  bitter  as  though  he  had  really 
expected  to  find  the  cartridge. 

He  plodded  on  for  half  an  hour,  when  the  hallucination 
arose  again.  Again  he  fought  it  and  still  it  persisted,  till  for 
very  relief  he  opened  his  rifle  to  unconvince  himself.  At 
times  his  mind  wandered  farther  afield,  and  he  plodded 
on,  a  mere  automaton,  strange  conceits  and  whimsicalities 
gnawing  at  his  brain  like  worms.  But  these  excursions  out 
of  the  real  were  of  brief  duration,  for  ever  the  pangs  of  the 
hunger-bite  called  him  back.  He  was  jerked  back  abruptly 
once  from  such  an  excursion  by  a  sight  that  caused  him 
nearly  to  faint.  He  reeled  and  swayed,  doddering  like  a 
drunken  man  to  keep  from  falling.  Before  him  stood  a 
horse.  A  horse !  He  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  A  thick 
mist  was  in  them,  intershot  with  sparkling  points  of  light. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  savagely  to  clear  his  vision,  and  beheld 
not  a  horse,  but  a  great  brown  bear.  The  animal  was  study- 
ing him  with  bellicose  curiosity. 

The  man  had  brought  his  gun  halfway  to  his  shoulder 
before  he  realized.  He  lowered  it  and  drew  his  bunting- 
knife  from  its  beaded  sheath  at  his  hip.  Before  him  was 
meat  and  life.  He  ran  his  thumb  along  the  edge  of  his 
knife.  It  was  sharp.  The  point  was  sharp.  He  would  fling 
himself  upon  the  bear  and  kill  it.  But  his  heart  began  its 
warning  thump,  thump,  thump.  Then  followed  the  wild 
upward  leap  and  tattoo  of  flutters,  the  pressing  as  of  an 
iron  band  about  his  forehead,  the  creeping  of  the  dizziness 
into  his  brain. 

His  desperate  courage  was  evicted  by  a  great  surge  of 
fear.  In  his  weakness,  what  if  the  animal  attacked  him  ! 
He  drew  himself  up  to  his  most  imposing  stature,  gripping 
the  knife  and  staring  hard  at  the  bear.  The  bear  advanced 
clumsily  a  couple  of  steps,  reared  up  and  gave  vent  to  a 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  245 

tentative  growl.  If  the  man  ran  he  would  run  after  him ; 
but  the  man  did  not  run.  He  was  animated  now  with  the 
courage  of  fear.  He,  too,  growled,  savagely,  terribly,  voic- 
ing the  fear  that  is  to  life  germane  and  that  lies  twisted 
about  life's  deepest  roots. 

The  bear  edged  away  to  one  side,  growling  menacingly, 
himself  appalled  by  this  mysterious  creature  that  appeared 
upright  and  unafraid.  But  the  man  did  not  move.  He 
stood  like  a  statue  till  the  danger  was  past,  when  he  yielded 
to  a  fit  of  trembling  and  sank  down  into  the  wet  moss. 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  went  on,  afraid  now  in  a 
new  way.  It  was  not  the  fear  that  he  should  die  passively 
from  lack  of  food,  but  that  he  should  be  destroyed  violently 
before  starvation  had  exhausted  the  last  particle  of  the 
endeavor  in  him  that  made  toward  surviving.  There  were 
the  wolves.  Back  and  forth  across  the  desolation  drifted 
their  howls,  weaving  the  very  air  into  a  fabric  of  menace 
that  was  so  tangible  that  he  found  himself,  arms  in  the  air, 
pressing  it  back  from  him  as  it  might  be  the  walls  of  a 
wind-blown  tent. 

Now  and  again  the  wolves  in  packs  of  two  and  three 
crossed  his  path.  But  they  sheered  clear  of  him.  They  were 
not  in  sufficient  numbers,  and  besides  they  were  hunting 
the  caribou  which  did  not  battle,  while  this  strange  crea- 
ture that  walked  erect  might  scratch  and  bite. 

In  the  late  afternoon  he  came  upon  scattered  bones 
where  the  wolves  had  made  a  kill.  The  debris  had  been  a 
caribou  calf  an  hour  before,  squawking  and  running  and 
very  much  alive.  He  contemplated  the  bones,  clean-picked 
and  polished,  pink  with  the  cell-life  in  them  which  had  not 
yet  died.  Could  it  possibly  be  that  he  might  be  that  ere 
the  day  was  done  !  Such  was  life,  eh  ?  A  vain  and  fleeting 
thing.  It  was  only  life  that  pained.  There  was  no  hurt  in 
death.  To  die  was  to  sleep.  It  meant  cessation,  rest.  Then 
why  was  he  not  content  to  die  ? 


246  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES  ' 

But  he  did  not  moralize  long.  He  was  squatting  in  the 
moss,  a  bone  in  his  mouth,  sucking  at  the  shreds  of  life  that 
still  dyed  it  faintly  pink.  The  sweet  meaty  taste,  thin  and 
elusive  almost  as  a  memory,  maddened  him.  He  closed  his 
jaws  on  the  bones  and  crunched.  Sometimes  it  was  the 
bone  that  broke,  sometimes  his  teeth.  Then  he  crushed 
the  bones  between  rocks,  pounded  them  to  a  pulp  and 
swallowed  them.  He  pounded  his  fingers,  too,  in  his  haste, 
and  yet  found  a  moment  in  which  to  feel  surprise  at  the 
fact  that  his  fingers  did  not  hurt  much  when  caught  under 
the  descending  rock. 

Came  frightful  days  of  snow  and  rain.  He  did  not  know 
when  he  made  camp,  when  he  broke  camp.  He  traveled  in 
the  night  as  much  as  in  the  day.  He  rested  wherever  he 
fell,  crawled  on  whenever  the  dying  life  in  him  flickered  up 
and  burned  less  dimly.  He  as  a  man  no  longer  strove.  It 
was  the  life  in  him,  unwilling  to  die,  that  drove  him  on. 
He  did  not  suffer.  His  nerves  had  become  blunted,  numb, 
while  his  mind  was  filled  with  weird  visions  and  delicious 
dreams.  • 

But  ever  he  sucked  and  chewed  on  the  crushed  bones  of 
the  caribou  calf,  the  least  remnants  of  which  he  had 
gathered  up  and  carried  with  him.  He  crossed  no  more 
hills  or  divides,  but  automatically  followed  a  large  stream 
which  flowed  through  a  wide  and  shallow  valley.  He  did 
not  see  this  stream  or  this  valley.  He  saw  nothing  save 
visions.  Soul  and  body  walked  or  crawled  side  by  side,  yet 
apart,  so  slender  was  the  thread  that  bound  them. 

He  awoke  in  his  right  mind,  lying  on  his  back  on  a  rocky 
ledge.  The  sun  was  shining  bright  and  warm.  Afar  off  he 
heard  the  squawking  of  caribou  calves.  He  was  aware  of 
vague  memories  of  rain  and  wind  and  snow,  but  whether 
he  had  been  beaten  by  the  storm  for  two  days  or  two  weeks 
he  did  not  know. 

For  some  time  he  lay  without  movement,  the  genial  sun- 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  247 

shine  pouring  upon  him  and  saturating  his  miserable  body 
with  its  warmth.  A  fine  day,  he  thought.  Perhaps  he 
could  manage  to  locate  himself.  By  a  painful  effort  he 
rolled  over  on  his  side.  Below  him  flowed  a  wide  and  slug- 
gish river.  Its  unfamiliarity  puzzled  him.  Slowly  he  fol- 
lowed it  with  his  eyes,  winding  in  wide  sweeps  among  the 
bleak  bare  hills,  bleaker  and  barer  and  lower-lying  than 
any  hills  he  had  yet  encountered.  Slowly,  deliberately, 
without  excitement  or  more  than  the  most  casual  interest, 
he  followed  the  course  of  the  strange  stream  toward  the 
sky-line  and  saw  it  emptying  into  a  bright  and  shining  sea. 
He  was  still  unexcited.  Most  unusual,  he  thought,  a  vision, 
or  a  mirage  —  more  likely  a  vision,  a  trick  of  his  disordered 
mind.  He  was  confirmed  in  this  by  sight  of  a  ship  lying  at 
anchor  in  the  midst  of  the  shining  sea.  He  closed  his  eyes 
for  a  while,  then  opened  them.  Strange  how  the  vision 
persisted !  Yet  not  strange.  He  knew  there  were  no  seas  or 
ships  in  the  heart  of  the  barren  lands,  just  as  he  had 
known  there  was  no  cartridge  in  the  empty  rifle. 

He  heard  a  snuffle  behind  him  —  a  half -choking  gasp  or 
cough.  Very  slowly,  because  of  his  exceeding  weakness  and 
stiffness,  he  rolled  over  on  his  other  side.  He  could  see 
nothing  near  at  hand,  but  he  waited  patiently.  Again  came 
the  snuffle  and  cough,  and  outlined  between  two  jagged 
rocks  not  a  score  of  feet  away  he  made  out  the  gray  head  of 
a  wolf.  The  sharp  ears  were  not  pricked  so  sharply  as  he 
had  seen  them  on  other  wolves ;  the  eyes  were  bleared  and 
blood-shot,  the  head  seemed  to  droop  limply  and  forlornly. 
The  animal  blinked  continually  in  the  sunshine.  It  seemed 
sick.  As  he  looked  it  snuffled  and  coughed  again. 

This,  at  least,  was  real,  he  thought,  and  turned  on  the 
other  side  so  that  he  might  see  the  reality  of  the  world 
which  had  been  veiled  from  him  before  by  the  vision.  But 
the  sea  still  shone  in  the  distance  and  the  ship's  spars  were 
plainly  discernible.  Was  it  reality  after  all  ?  He  closed  his 


248  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

eyes  for  a  long  while  and  thought,  and  then  it  came  to  him. 
He  had  been  making  north  by  east,  away  from  the  Dease 
Divide  and  into  the  Coppermine  Valley.  This  wide  and 
sluggish  river  was  the  Coppermine.  That  shining  sea  was 
the  Arctic  Ocean.  That  ship  was  a  whaler,  strayed  east, 
far  east,  from  the  mouth  of  the  Mackenzie,  and  it  was  lying 
at  anchor  in  Coronation  Gulf.  He  remembered  the  Hudson 
Bay  Company  chart  he  had  seen  long  ago,  and  it  was  all 
clear  and  reasonable  to  him. 

He  sat  up  and  turned  his  attention  to  immediate  affairs. 
He  had  worn  through  the  blanket-wrappings,  and  his  feet 
were  like  shapeless  lumps  of  raw  meat.  His  last  blanket 
was  gone.  Rifle  and  knife  were  both  missing.  He  had  lost 
his  hat  somewhere,  with  the  bunch  of  matches  in  the  band, 
but  the  matches  against  his  chest  were  safe  and  dry  inside 
the  tobacco  pouch  and  oil-paper.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  marked  eleven  o'clock  and  was  still  running.  Evidently 
he  had  kept  it  wound. 

He  was  calm  and  collected.  Though  extremely  weak  he 
had  no  sensation  of  pain.  He  was  not  hungry.  The  thought 
of  food  was  not  even  pleasant  to  him,  and  whatever  he  did 
was  done  by  his  reason  alone.  He  ripped  off  his  pants'  legs 
to  the  knees  and  bound  them  about  his  feet.  Somehow  he 
had  succeeded  in  retaining  the  tin  bucket.  He  would  have 
some  hot  water  before  he  began  what  he  foresaw  was  to  be 
a  terrible  journey  to  the  ship. 

His  movements  were  slow.  He  shook  as  with  a  palsy. 
When  he  started  to  collect  dry  moss  he  found  he  could  not 
rise  to  his  feet.  He  tried  again  and  again,  then  contented 
himself  with  crawling  about  on  hands  and  knees.  Once  he 
crawled  near  to  the  sick  wolf.  The  animal  dragged  itself 
reluctantly  out  of  his  way,  licking  its  chops  with  a  tongue 
which  seemed  hardly  to  have  the  strength  to  curl.  The 
man  noticed  that  the  tongue  was  not  the  customary  health- 
|  ful  red.  It  was  a  yellowish  brown  and  seemed  coated  with 
a  rough  and  half -dry  mucus. 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  249 

After  he  had  drunk  a  quart  of  hot  water  the  man  found 
he  was  able  to  stand,  and  even  to  walk  as  well  as  a  dying 
man  might  be  supposed  to  walk.  Every  minute  or  so  he 
was  compelled  to  rest.  His  steps  were  feeble  and  uncertain, 
just  as  the  wolf's  that  trailed  him  were  feeble  and  uncer- 
tain ;  and  that  night,  when  the  shining  sea  was  blotted  out 
by  blackness,  he  knew  he  was  nearer  to  it  by  no  more  than 
four  miles. 

Throughout  the  night  he  heard  the  cough  of  the  sick 
wolf,  and  now  and  then  the  squawking  of  the  caribou 
calves.  There  was  life  all  around  him,  but  it  was  strong  life, 
very  much  alive  and  well,  and  he  knew  the  sick  wolf  clung 
to  the  sick  man's  trail  in  the  hope  that  the  man  would  die 
first.  In  the  morning,  on  opening  his  eyes,  he  beheld  it 
regarding  him  with  a  wistful  and  hungry  stare.  It  stood 
crouched,  with  tail  between  its  legs,  like  a  miserable  and 
woe-begone  dog.  It  shivered  in  the  chill  morning  wind,  and 
grinned  dispiritedly  when  the  man  spoke  to  it  in  a  voice 
which  achieved  no  more  than  a  hoarse  whisper. 

The  sun  rose  brightly,  and  all  morning  the  man  tottered 
and  fell  toward  the  ship  on  the  shining  sea.  The  weather 
was  perfect.  It  was  the  brief  Indian  summer  of  the  high 
latitudes.  It  might  last  a  week.  To-morrow  or  next  day  it 
might  be  gone. 

In  the  afternoon  the  man  came  upon  a  trail.  It  was  of 
another  man,  who  did  not  walk,  but  who  dragged  himself 
on  all  fours.  The  man  thought  it  might  be  Bill,  but  he 
thought  in  a  dull,  uninterested  way.  He  had  no  curiosity. 
In  fact  sensation  and  emotion  had  left  him.  He  was  no 
longer  susceptible  to  pain.  Stomach  and  nerves  had  gone 
to  sleep.  Yet  the  life  that  was  in  him  drove  him  on.  He 
was  very  weary,  but  it  refused  to  die.  It  was  because  it 
refused  to  die  that  he  still  ate  muskeg  berries  and  min- 
nows, drank  his  hot  water,  and  kept  a  wary  eye  on  the  sick 
wolf. 


250  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

He  followed  the  trail  of  the  other  man  who  dragged  him- 
self along,  and  soon  came  to  the  end  of  it  —  a  few  fresh- 
picked  bones  where  the  soggy  moss  was  marked  by  the 
foot-pads  of  many  wolves.  He  saw  a  squat  moose-hide 
sack,  mate  to  his  own,  which  had  been  torn  by  sharp  teeth. 
He  picked  it  up,  though  its  weight  was  almost  too  much  for 
his  feeble  fingers.  Bill  had  carried  it  to  the  last.  Ha !  ha ! 
He  would  have  the  laugh  on  Bill.  He  would  survive  and 
carry  it  to  the  ship  in  the  shining  sea.  His  mirth  was  hoarse 
and  ghastly,  like  a  raven's  croak,  and  the  sick  wolf  joined 
him,  howling  lugubriously.  The  man  ceased  suddenly. 
How  could  he  have  the  laugh  on  Bill  if  that  were  Bill ;  if 
those  bones,  so  pinky -white  and  clean,  were  Bill ! 

He  turned  away.  Well,  Bill  had  deserted  him;  but  he 
would  not  take  the  gold,  nor  would  he  suck  Bill's  bones. 
Bill  would  have,  though,  had  it  been  the  other  way  around, 
he  mused,  as  he  staggered  on. 

He  came  to  a  pool  of  water.  Stooping  over  in  quest  of 
minnows,  he  jerked  his  head  back  as  though  he  had  been 
stung.  He  had  caught  sight  of  his  reflected  face.  So  hor- 
rible was  it  that  sensibility  awoke  long  enough  to  be 
shocked.  There  were  three  minnows  in  the  pool,  which  was 
too  large  to  drain ;  and  after  several  ineffectual  attempts 
to  catch  them  in  the  tin  bucket  he  forbore.  He  was  afraid, 
because  of  his  great  weakness,  that  he  might  fall  in  and 
drown.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  he  did  not  trust  himself 
to  the  river  astride  one  of  the  many  drift-logs  which  lined 
its  sand-spits. 

That  day  he  decreased  the  distance  between  him  and  the 
ship  by  three  miles;  the  next  day  by  two  —  for  he  was 
crawling  now  as  Bill  had  crawled ;  and  the  end  of  the  fifth 
day  found  the  ship  still  seven  miles  away  and  him  unable 
to  make  even  a  mile  a  day.  Still  the  Indian  summer  held 
on,  and  he  continued  to  crawl  and  faint,  turn  and  turn 
about ;  and  ever  the  sick  wolf  coughed  and  wheezed  at  his 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  251 

heels.  His  knees  had  become  raw  meat  like  his  feet,  and 
though  he  padded  them  with  the  shirt  from  his  back  it  was 
a  red  track  he  left  behind  him  on  the  moss  and  stones. 
Once  glancing  back  he  saw  the  wolf  licking  hungrily  his 
bleeding  trail,  and  he  saw  sharply  what  his  own  end  might 
be  —  unless  —  unless  he  could  get  the  wolf.  Then  began 
as  grim  a  tragedy  of  existence  as  was  ever  played  —  a  sick 
man  that  crawled,  a  sick  wolf  that  limped,  two  creatures 
dragging  their  dying  carcasses  across  the  desolation  and 
hunting  each  other's  lives. 

Had  it  been  a  well  wolf,  it  would  not  have  mattered  so 
much  to  the  man ;  but  the  thought  of  going  to  feed  the  maw 
of  that  loathsome  and  all  but  dead  thing  was  repugnant  to 
him.  He  was  finicky.  His  mind  had  begun  to  wander 
again,  and  to  be  perplexed  by  hallucinations,  while  his  lucid 
intervals  grew  rarer  and  shorter. 

He  was  awakened  once  from  a  faint  by  a  wheeze  close  in 
his  ear.  The  wolf  leaped  lamely  back,  losing  its  footing  and 
falling  in  its  weakness.  It  was  ludicrous,  but  he  was  not 
amused.  Nor  was  he  even  afraid.  He  was  too  far  gone  for 
that.  But  his  mind  was  for  the  moment  clear,  and  he  lay 
and  considered.  The  ship  was  no  more  than  four  miles 
away.  He  could  see  it  quite  distinctly  when  he  rubbed  the 
mists  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  could  see  the  white  sail  of  a 
small  boat  cutting  the  water  of  the  shining  sea.  But  he 
could  never  crawl  those  four  miles.  He  knew  that,  and  was 
very  calm  in  the  knowledge.  He  knew  that  he  could  not 
crawl  half  a  mile.  And  yet  he  wanted  to  live.  It  was  un- 
reasonable that  he  should  die  after  all  he  had  undergone. 
Fate  asked  too  much  of  him.  And,  dying,  he  declined  to  die. 
It  was  stark  madness,  perhaps,  but  in  the  very  grip  of 
Death  he  defied  Death  and  refused  to  die. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  composed  himself  with  infinite 
precaution.  He  steeled  himself  to  keep  above  the  suffocat- 
ing languor  that  lapped  like  a  rising  tide  through  all  the 


252  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

wells  of  his  being.  It  was  very  like  a  sea,  this  deadly  lan- 
guor, that  rose  and  rose  and  drowned  his  consciousness  bit 
by  bit.  Sometimes  he  was  all  but  submerged,  swimming 
through  oblivion  with  a  faltering  stroke;  and  again,  by 
some  strange  alchemy  of  soul,  he  would  find  another  shred 
of  will  and  strike  out  more  strongly. 

Without  movement  he  lay  on  his  back,  and  he  could  hear 
slowly  drawing  near  and  nearer  the  wheezing  intake  and 
output  of  the  sick  wolf 's  breath.  It  drew  closer,  ever  closer, 
through  an  infinitude  of  time,  and  he  did  not  move.  It  was 
at  his  ear.  The  harsh  dry  tongue  grated  like  sandpaper 
against  his  cheek.  His  hands  shot  out  —  or  at  least  he 
willed  them  to  shoot  out.  The  fingers  were  curved  like 
talons,  but  they  closed  on  empty  air.  Swiftness  and  certi- 
tude require  strength,  and  the  man  had  not  this  strength. 

The  patience  of  the  wolf  was  terrible.  The  man's  pa- 
tience was  no  less  terrible.  For  half  a  day  he  lay  motionless, 
fighting  off  unconsciousness  and  waiting  for  the  thing  that 
was  to  feed  upon  him  and  upon  which  he  wished  to  feed. 
Sometimes  the  languid  sea  rose  over  him  and  he  dreamed 
long  dreams ;  but  ever  through  it  all,  waking  and  dream- 
ing, he  waited  for  the  wheezing  breath  and  the  harsh 
caress  of  the  tongue. 

He  did  not  hear  the  breath,  and  he  slipped  slowly  from 
some  dream  to  the  feel  of  the  tongue  along  his  hand.  He 
waited.  The  fangs  pressed  softly ;  the  pressure  increased ; 
the  wolf  was  exerting  its  last  strength  in  an  effort  to  sink 
teeth  in  the  food  for  which  it  had  waited  so  long.  But  the 
man  had  waited  long,  and  the  lacerated  hand  closed  on  the 
jaw.  Slowly,  while  the  wolf  struggled  feebly  and  the  hand 
clutched  feebly,  the  other  hand  crept  across  to  a  grip.  Five 
minutes  later  the  whole  weight  of  the  man's  body  was  on 
top  of  the  wolf.  The  hands  had  not  sufficient  strength  to 
choke  the  animal,  but  the  face  of  the  man  was  pressed  close 
to  the  throat  of  the  wolf  and  the  mouth  was  full  of  hair. 


LOVE  OF  LIFE  253 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  man  was  aware  of  a  warm 
trickle  in  his  throat.  It  was  not  pleasant.  It  was  like  mol- 
ten lead  being  forced  into  his  stomach,  but  it  was  forced  by 
his  will  alone.  Later  the  man  rolled  over  on  his  back  and 
slept. 

There  were  some  members  of  a  scientific  expedition  on 
the  whaleship  Bedford.  From  the  deck  they  remarked  a 
strange  object  on  the  shore.  It  was  moving  down  the  beach 
toward  the  water.  They  were  unable  to  classify  it,  and, 
being  scientific  men,  they  climbed  into  the  whaleboat 
alongside  and  went  ashore  to  see.  And  they  saw  something 
that  was  alive,  but  that  could  hardly  be  called  a  man.  It 
was  blind,  unconscious.  It  squirmed  along  the  ground  like 
some  monstrous  worm.  Most  of  its  efforts  were  ineffectual, 
but  it  was  persistent,  and  it  writhed  and  twisted  and  went 
ahead  perhaps  a  score  of  feet  an  hour. 

Three  weeks  afterward  the  man  lay  in  a  bunk  on  the 
whaleship  Bedford,  and  with  tears  streaming  down  his 
wasted  cheeks  told  who  he  was  and  what  he  had  undergone. 
He  also  babbled  incoherently  of  his  mother,  of  sunny 
Southern  California,  and  a  home  among  the  orange  groves 
and  flowers. 

The  days  were  not  many  after  that  when  he  sat  at  table 
with  the  scientific  men  and  ship's  officers.  He  gloated  over 
the  spectacle  of  so  much  food,  watching  it  anxiously  as  it 
went  into  the  mouths  of  others.  With  the  disappearance  of 
each  mouthful  an  expression  of  deep  regret  came  into  his 
eyes.  He  was  quite  sane,  yet  he  hated  those  men  at  meal- 
time because  they  ate  so  much  food.  He  was  haunted  by  a 
fear  that  it  would  not  last.  He  inquired  of  the  cook,  the 
cabin-boy,  the  captain,  concerning  the  food  stores.  They 
reassured  him  countless  times ;  but  he  could  not  believe 
them,  and  pried  cunningly  about  the  lazarette  to  see  with 
his  own  eyes. 


254  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPES 

It  was  noticed  that  the  man  was  getting  fat.  He  grew 
stouter  with  each  day.  The  scientific  men  shook  their 
heads  and  theorized.  They  limited  the  man  at  his  meals, 
but  still  his  girth  increased  and  his  body  swelled  prodi- 
giously under  his  shirt. 

The  sailors  grinned.  They  knew.  And  when  the  scienti- 
fic men  set  a  watch  on  the  man,  they  knew  too.  They  saw 
him  slouch  for'ard  after  breakfast,  and  like  a  mendicant, 
with  outstretched  palm,  accost  a  sailor.  The  sailor  grinned 
and  passed  him  a  fragment  of  sea-biscuit.  He  clutched  it 
avariciously,  looked  at  it  as  a  miser  looks  at  gold,  and 
thrust  it  into  his  shirt  bosom.  Similar  were  the  donations 
from  other  grinning  sailors. 

The  scientific  men  were  discreet.  They  left  him  alone. 
But  they  privily  examined  his  bunk.  It  was  lined  with 
hardtack ;  the  mattress  was  stuffed  with  hardtack ;  every 
nook  and  cranny  was  filled  with  hardtack.  Yet  he  was  sane. 
He  was  taking  precautions  against  another  possible  famine 
—  that  was  all.  He  would  recover  from  it,  the  scientific 
men  said ;  and  he  did,  ere  the  Bedford's  anchor  rumbled 
down  in  San  Francisco  Bay. 


AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

STORIES  OF  COMMUNAL  CONSCIOUSNESS 


7  loathed  you,  Spoon  River,  f  tried  to  rise  above  you. 
I  was  ashamed  of  you.  I  despised  you 
As  the  place  of  my  nativity. 
And  there  in  Rome,  among  the  artistst 
Speaking  Italian,  speaking  French, 
I  seemed  to  myself  at  times  to  be  free 
Of  every  trace  of  my  origin  .... 
But  still  they'd  pass  my  work  and  say: 
"What  are  you  driving  at,  my  friend? 
Sometimes  the  face  looks  like  Apollo's; 
At  other  times  it  has  a  trace  of  Lincoln's" 
There  was  no  culture,  you  know,  in  Spoon  River, 
And  I  burned  with  shame  and  held  my  peace. 
And  what  could  I  do,  all  covered  over 
And  weighted  down  with  Western  soil, 
Except  aspire,  and  pray  for  another 
Birth  in  the  world,  with  all  of  Spoon  River 
Rooted  out  of  my  soul  f 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTEES,  /Spoon  River  Anthology 


BY  THE  ROD  OP  HIS  WEATH1 
BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

SATURDAY  afternoons,  when  the  town  is  full,  and  farmers 
are  coming  in  to  the  office  to  pay  their  subscriptions  for  the 
Weekly,  it  is  our  habit,  after  the  paper  is  out,  to  sit  hi  the 
office  and  look  over  Main  Street,  where  perhaps  five  hundred 
people  are  milling,  and  consider  with  one  another  the  nature 
of  our  particular  little  can  of  angle-worms  and  its  relation 
to  the  great  forces  that  move  the  world.  The  town  often 
seems  to  us  to  be  dismembered  from  the  earth,  and  to  be  a 
chunk  of  humanity  drifting  through  space  by  itself,  like  a 
vagrant  star,  forgotten  of  the  law  that  governs  the  universe. 
Go  where  our  people  will,  they  find  change ;  but  when  they 
come  home,  they  look  out  of  the  hack  as  they  ride  through 
town,  seeing  the  old  familiar  buildings  and  bill-boards  and 
street-signs,  and  say  with  surprise,  as  Mathew  Boris  said 
after  a  busy  and  eventful  day  in  Kansas  City,  where  he  had 
been  marketing  his  steers :  "  Well,  the  old  town  seems  to 
keep  right  on,  just  the  same." 

The  old  men  in  town  seem  always  to  have  been  old,  and 
though  the  middle-aged  do  sometimes  step  across  the  old- 
age  line,  the  young  men  remain  perennially  young,  and 
when  they  grow  fat  or  dry  up,  and  their  hair  thins  and 
whitens,  they  are  still  called  by  their  diminutive  names, 
and  to  most  of  us  they  are  known  as  sons  of  the  old  men. 
Here  a  new  house  goes  up,  and  there  a  new  store  is  built, 
but  they  rise  slowly,  and  every  one  in  town  has  time  to  go 
through  them  and  over  them  and  criticize  the  architectural 
taste  of  the  builders,  so  that  by  the  time  a  building  is 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  In  Our  Town,  by  William  Allen  White. 
Copyright,  1906,  by  the  Macmillan  Company. 


258  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

finished  it  seems  to  have  grown  into  the  original  conscious- 
ness of  the  people,  and  to  be  a  part  of  then*  earliest  memo- 
ries. We  send  our  children  to  Sunday  School,  and  we  go  to 
church  and  learn  how  God's  rewards  or  punishments  fell 
upon  the  men  of  old,  as  they  were  faithful  or  recreant ;  but 
we  don't  seem  to  be  like  the  men  of  old,  for  we  are  neither 
very  good  nor  very  bad  —  hardly  worth  God's  while  to 
sort  us  over  for  any  uncommon  lot.  Only  once,  in  the  case 
of  John  Markley,  did  the  Lord  reach  into  our  town  and 
show  his  righteous  judgment.  And  that  judgment  was 
shown  so  clearly  through  the  hearts  of  our  people  that  very 
likely  John  Markley  does  not  consider  it  the  judgment  of 
God  at  all,  but  the  prejudice  of  the  neighbors. 

When  we  have  been  talking  over  the  case  of  John 
Markley  in  the  office,  we  have  generally  ended  by  wonder- 
ing whether  God  —  or  whatever  one  cares  to  call  the  force 
that  operates  the  moral  laws,  as  well  as  those  that  in  our 
ignorance  we  set  apart  as  the  physical  laws  of  the  world  — 
whether  God  moves  by  cataclysm  and  accidents,  or 
whether  He  moves  with  blessing  or  chastisement,  through 
human  nature  as  it  is,  in  the  ordinary  business  of  the  lives 
of  men.  But  we  have  never  settled  that  in  our  office  any 
more  than  they  have  in  the  great  schools,  and  as  John 
Markley,  game  to  the  end,  has  never  said  what  he  thought 
of  the  town's  treatment  of  him,  it  will  never  be  known 
which  side  of  our  controversy  is  right. 

Years  ago,  perhaps  as  long  ago  as  the  drought  of  seventy- 
four,  men  began  calling  him  "Honest  John  Markley." 
He  was  the  fairest  man  in  town,  and  he  made  money  by  it, 
for  when  he  opened  his  little  bank  Centennial  year,  which 
was  the  year  of  the  big  wheat  crop,  farmers  stood  in  line 
half  an  hour  at  a  time,  at  the  door  of  his  bank,  waiting  to 
give  him  their  money.  He  was  a  plain,  imcollared,  short- 
whiskered  man,  brown-haired  and  gray-eyed,  whose  wife 
always  made  his  shirts  and,  being  a  famous  cook  in  town, 


BY  THE  ROD  OF  HIS  WRATH  259 

kept  him  round  and  chubby.  He  referred  to  her  as  "Ma," 
and  she  called  him  "Pa  Markley"  so  insistently  that  when 
we  elected  him  State  Senator,  after  he  made  his  bank  a 
national  bank,  in  1880,  the  town  and  county  couldn't  get 
used  to  calling  him  Senator  Markley,  so  "Pa  Markley "  it 
was  until  after  his  senatorial  fame  had  been  forgotten. 
Their  children  had  grown  up  and  left  home  before  the 
boom  of  the  eighties  came  —  one  girl  went  to  California 
and  the  boy  to  South  America ;  and  when  John  Markley 
began  to  write  his  wealth  in  six  figures  —  which  is  almost 
beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice  in  a  town  like  ours  —  he  and 
his  wife  were  lonely  and  knew  little  what  to  do  with  their 
income. 

They  bought  new  furniture  for  the  parlor,  and  the 
Ladies'  Missionary  Society  of  the  First  Methodist  Church, 
the  only  souls  that  saw  it  with  the  linen  jackets  off,  say  it 
was  lovely  to  behold;  they  bought  everything  the  fruit- 
tree  man  had  in  his  catalogue,  and  their  five  acres  on  Ex- 
change Street  were  pimpled  over  with  shrubs  that  never 
bloomed  and  with  trees  that  never  bore  fruit.  He  passed 
the  hat  in  church  —  being  a  brother-in-law  to  the  organiza- 
tion, as  he  explained;  sang  "Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  the 
Boys  are  Marching"  at  Grand  Army  entertainments,  and 
always  as  an  encore  dragged  "Ma"  out  to  sing  with  him 
"Dear,  Dear,  What  Can  the  Matter  Be."  She  was  a 
skinny,  sharp-eyed,  shy  little  woman  in  her  late  fifties 
when  the  trouble  came.  She  rose  at  every  annual  meeting 
of  the  church  to  give  a  hundred  dollars,  but  her  voice  never 
lasted  until  she  got  through  announcing  her  donation,  and 
she  sat  down  demurely,  blushing  and  looking  down  her 
nose  as  though  she  had  disgraced  the  family.  She  had  lost 
a  brother  in  the  war,  and  never  came  further  out  of  mourn- 
ing than  purple  flowers  in  her  bonnet.  She  bought  John 
Markley's  clothes,  so  that  his  Sunday  finery  contained 
nothing  giddier  than  a  gray  made-up  tie,  that  she  pinned 
around  the  collars  which  her  own  hands  had  ironed. 


260  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

Slowly  as  their  fortune  piled  up,  and  people  said  they 
had  a  million,  his  brown  beard  grizzled  a  little,  and  his 
brow  crept  up  and  up  and  his  girth  stretched  out  to  forty- 
four.  But  his  hands  did  not  whiten  or  soften,  and  though 
he  was  "Honest  John,"  and  every  quarter-section  of  land 
that  he  bought  doubled  hi  value  by  some  magic  that  he 
only  seemed  to  know,  he  kept  the  habits  of  his  youth,  rose 
early,  washed  at  the  kitchen  basin,  and  was  the  first  man 
at  his  office  hi  the  morning.  At  night,  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  he  smoked  a  cob-pipe  in  the  basement,  where  he 
could  spit  into  the  furnace  and  watch  the  fire  until  nine 
o'clock,  when  he  put  out  the  cat  and  bedded  down  the  fire, 
while  "Ma"  set  the  buckwheat  cakes.  They  never  had  a 
servant  in  their  house. 

We  used  to  see  John  Markley  pass  the  office  window  a 
dozen  times  a  day,  a  hale,  vigorous  man,  whose  heels 
clicked  hard  on  the  sidewalk  as  he  came  hurrying  along  — 
head  back  and  shoulders  rolling.  He  was  a  powerful,  mas- 
culine, indomitable  creature,  who  looked  out  of  defiant, 
cold,  unblinking  eyes  as  though  he  were  just  about  to  tell 
the  whole  world  to  go  to  hell  I  The  town  was  proud  of  him. 
He  was  our  "prominent  citizen,"  and  when  he  was  elected 
president  of  the  district  bankers'  association,  and  his  name 
appeared  in  the  papers  as  a  possible  candidate  for  United 
States  Senator  or  Minister  to  Mexico  or  Secretary  of  the 
Interior,  we  were  glad  that  "Honest  John  Markley"  was 
our  fellow-townsman. 

And  then  came  the  crash.  Man  is  a  curious  creature, 
and,  even  if  he  is  nine  parts  good,  the  old  Adam  in  him 
must  burn  out  one  way  or  another  in  his  youth,  or  there 
comes  a  danger  period  at  the  height  of  his  middle  life  when 
his  submerged  tenth  that  has  been  smoldering  for  years 
flares  up  and  destroys  him.  Wherefore  the  problem  which 
we  have  never  been  able  to  solve,  though  we  have  talked 
it  over  in  the  office  a  dozen  times :  whether  John  Markley 


BY  THE  ROD  OF  HIS  WRATH  261 

had  begun  to  feel,  before  he  met  the  Hobart  woman,  that 
he  wasn't  getting  enough  out  of  life  for  the  money  he  had 
invested  in  it ;  or  whether  she  put  the  notion  in  his  head. 

It  is  scarcely  correct  to  speak  of  his  having  met  her,  for 
she  grew  up  in  the  town,  and  had  been  working  for  the 
Markley  Mortgage  and  Investment  Company  for  half  a 
dozen  years  before  he  began  to  notice  her.  From  a  brassy 
street-gadding  child  of  twelve,  whose  mother  crowded  her 
into  grown-up  society  before  she  left  the  high  school,  and 
let  her  spell  her  name  Ysabelle,  she  had  grown  into  woman- 
hood like  a  rank  weed ;  had  married  at  nineteen,  was  di- 
vorced at  twenty-one,  and  having  tried  music-teaching  and 
failed,  china-painting  and  failed,  she  learned  stenography 
by  sheer  force  of  her  own  will,  with  no  instruction  save  that 
in  her  book,  and  opened  an  office  for  such  work  as  she  could 
get,  while  aiming  for  the  best  job  in  town  —  the  position 
of  cashier  and  stenographer  for  the  Markley  Mortgage 
Company.  It  took  her  three  years  to  get  in  and  another 
year  to  make  herself  invaluable.  She  was  big  and  strong, 
did  the  work  of  two  men  for  the  pay  of  one,  and  for  five 
years  John  Markley,  who  saw  that  she  had  plenty  of  work 
to  do,  did  not  seem  to  know  that  she  was  on  earth.  But  one 
day  "Alphabetical"  Morrison,  who  was  in  our  office  pick- 
ing up  his  bundle  of  exchanges,  looked  rather  idly  out  of  the 
window,  and  suddenly  rested  his  roving  eyes  upon  John 
Markley  and  Mrs.  Hobart,  standing  and  talking  in  front 
of  the  post  office.  The  man  at  the  desk  near  Morrison 
happened  to  be  looking  out  at  that  moment,  and  he,  too, 
saw  what  Morrison  saw  —  which  was  nothing  at  all,  except 
a  man  standing  beside  a  woman.  Probably  the  pair  had 
met  in  exactly  the  same  place  at  exactly  the  same  time,  and 
had  exchanged  an  idle  word  daily  for  five  years,  and  no  one 
had  noticed  it,  but  that  day  Morrison  unconsciously  put 
his  hand  to  his  chin  and  scratched  his  jaw,  and  his  eyes  and 
the  man's  at  the  desk  beside  him  met  in  a  surprised  inter- 


262  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

rogation,  and  Morrison's  mouth  and  nose  twitched,  and 
the  other  man  said,  as  he  turned  his  face  into  his  work, 
"Well,  wouldn't  that  get  you  !" 

The  conversation  went  no  further.  Neither  could  have 
said  what  he  saw.  But  there  is  something  in  every  human 
creature  —  a  survival  of  our  jungle  days  —  which  lets  our 
eyes  see  more  than  our  consciousness  records  in  language. 
And  these  men,  who  saw  Markley  and  the  woman,  could 
not  have  defined  the  canine  impression  which  he  gave 
them.  Yet  it  was  there.  The  volcano  was  beginning  to 
smoke. 

It  was  a  month  later  before  the  town  saw  the  flames., 
During  that  time  John  Markley  had  been  walking  to  and 
from  his  midday  dinner  with  Isabel  Hobart,  had  been  help* 
ing  her  on  and  off  with  her  wraps  in  the  office,  and  had  been 
all  but  kicking  up  the  dirt  behind  him  and  barking  around 
her,  as  the  clerks  there  told  us,  without  causing  comment. 
An  honest  man  always  has  such  a  long  start  when  he  runs 
away  from  himself  that  no  one  misses  him  until  he  is 
beyond  extradition.  Matters  went  along  thus  for  nearly  a 
year  before  the  woman  in  the  cottage  on  Exchange  Street 
knew  how  they  stood.  And  that  speaks  well  of  our  town ; 
for  we  are  not  a  mean  town,  and  if  any  one  ever  had  our 
sympathy  it  was  Mrs.  Markley,  as  she  went  about  her 
quiet  ways,  giving  her  missionary  teas,  looking  after  the 
poor  of  her  church,  making  her  famous  doughnuts  for  the 
socials,  doing  her  part  at  the  Relief  Corps  chicken-pie  sup- 
pers, digging  her  club  paper  out  of  the  encyclopaedia,  and 
making  over  her  black  silk  the  third  time  for  every  day.  If 
John  Markley  was  cross  with  her  in  that  time  —  and  the 
neighbors  say  that  he  was ;  if  he  sat  for  hours  in  the  house 
without  saying  a  word,  and  grumbled  and  flew  into  a  rage 
at  the  least  ruffling  of  the  domestic  waters  —  his  wife  kept 
her  grief  to  herself,  and  even  when  she  left  town  to  visit  her 
daughter  in  California  no  one  knew  what  she  knew. 


BY  THE  ROD  OF  HIS  WRATH  263 

A  month  passed,  two  months  passed,  and  John  Markley's 
name  had  become  a  byword  and  a  hissing.  Three  months 
passed,  a  year  went  by,  and  still  the  wife  did  not  return. 
And  then  one  day  Ab  Handy,  who  sometimes  prepared 
John  Markley's  abstracts,  came  into  our  office  and  whis- 
pered to  the  man  at  the  desk  that  there  was  a  little  paper 
filed  in  the  court  which,  under  the  circumstances,  Mr. 
Markley  would  rather  we  would  say  as  little  about  as  is 
consistent  with  our  policy  in  such  cases.  Handy  didn't  say 
what  it  was,  and  backed  out  bowing  and  eating  dirt,  and 
we  sent  a  boy  hot-foot  to  the  court-house  to  find  out  what 
had  been  filed.  The  boy  came  back  with  a  copy  of  a  peti- 
tion for  divorce  that  had  been  entered  by  John  Markley, 
alleging  desertion.  John  Markley  did  not  face  the  town 
when  he  brought  his  suit,  but  left  for  Chicago  on  the  after- 
noon train,  and  was  gone  nearly  a  month.  The  broken  little 
woman  did  not  come  back  to  contest  the  case,  and  the 
divorce  was  granted. 

The  day  before  his  marriage  to  Isabel  Hobart,  John 
Markley  shaved  off  his  grizzled  brown  beard,  and  showed 
the  town  a  face  so  strong  and  cunning  and  brutal  that  men 
were  shocked;  they  said  that  she  wished  to  make  him 
appear  young,  and  the  shave  did  drop  ten  years  from  his 
countenance ;  but  it  uncovered  his  soul  so  shamelessly  that 
it  seemed  immodest  to  look  at  his  face.  Upon  the  return 
from  the  wedding  trip,  the  employees  of  the  Markley  Mort- 
gage Company,  at  John  Markley's  suggestion,  gave  a 
reception  for  the  bride  and  groom,  and  the  Lord  laid  the 
first  visible  stripe  on  John  Markley  while  he  stood  with  his 
bride  for  three  hours,  waiting  for  the  thousand  invited 
guests  who  never  came.  "Alphabetical"  Morrison,  who 
owed  John  Markley  money,  and  had  to  go,  told  us  in  the 
office  the  next  day  that  John  Markley  in  evening  clothes, 
with  his  great  paunch  swathed  in  a  white  silk  vest,  smirk- 
ing like  a  gorged  jackal,  showing  his  fellow-townsmen  for 


2C4  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

the  first  time  his  coarse,  yellow  teeth  and  his  thin,  cruel 
lips,  looked  like  some  horrible  cartoon  of  his  former  self. 
Colonel  Morrison  did  not  describe  the  bride,  but  she  passed 
our  office  that  day,  going  the  rounds  of  the  dry-goods  stores, 
giggling  with  the  men  clerks  —  a  picture  of  sin  that  made 
men  wet  their  lips.  She  was  big,  oversexed,  and  feline ;  rat- 
tling in  silks,  with  an  aura  of  sensuousness  around  her 
which  seemed  to  glow  like  a  coal,  without  a  flicker  of  kind- 
ness or  shame  or  sweetness,  and  which  all  the  town  knew 
instinctively  must  clinker  into  something  black  and  ugly 
as  the  years  went  by. 

So  the  threshold  of  the  cottage  on  Exchange  Street  was 
not  darkened  by  our  people.  And  when  the  big  house  went 
up  —  a  palace  for  a  country  town,  though  it  only  cost  John 
Markley  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  —  he,  who  had  been 
so  reticent  about  his  affairs  in  other  years,  tried  to  talk  to 
his  old  friends  of  the  house,  telling  them  expansively  that 
he  was  putting  it  up  so  that  the  town  would  have  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  a  house  for  public  gatherings ;  but  he 
aroused  no  responsive  enthusiasm,  and  long  before  the  big 
opening  reception  his  fervor  had  been  quenched.  Though 
we  are  a  curious  people,  and  though  we  all  were  anx;.ous  to 
know  how  the  inside  of  the  new  house  looked,  we  did  not 
go  to  the  reception ;  only  the  socially  impossible,  and  the 
traveling  men's  wives  at  the  Metropole,  whom  Mrs. 
Markley  had  met  when  she  was  boarding  during  the  week 
they  moved,  gathered  to  hear  the  orchestra  from  Kansas 
City,  to  eat  the  Topeka  caterer's  food,  and  to  fall  down  on 
the  newly  waxed  floors  of  the  Markley  mansion.  But  our 
professional  instinct  at  the  office  told  us  that  the  town  was 
eager  for  news  of  that  house,  and  we  took  three  columns 
to  write  up  the  reception.  Our  description  of  the  place 
began  with  the  swimming-pool  in  the  cellar  and  ended  with 
the  ballroom  in  the  third  story. 

It  took  John  Markley  a  long  time  to  realize  that  the 


BY  THE  ROD  OF  HIS  WRATH  265 

town  was  done  with  him,  for  there  was  no  uprising,  no 
demonstration,  just  a  gradual  loosening  of  his  hold  upon 
the  community.  In  other  years  his  neighbors  had  urged 
him  and  expected  him  to  serve  on  the  school  board,  of 
which  he  had  been  chairman  for  a  dozen  years,  but  the 
spring  that  the  big  house  was  opened  Mrs.  Julia  Worth- 
ington  was  elected  in  his  place.  At  the  June  meeting  of 
the  Methodist  Conference  a  new  director  was  chosen  to  fill 
John  Markley's  place  on  the  college  board,  and  when  he 
canceled  his  annual  subscription  no  one  came  to  ask  him 
to  renew  it.  In  the  fall  his  party  selected  a  new  ward  com- 
mitteeman,  and  though  Markley  had  been  treasurer  of  the 
committee  for  a  dozen  years,  his  successor  was  named  from 
the  Worthington  bank,  and  they  had  the  grace  not  to  come 
to  Markley  with  the  subscription-paper  asking  for  money. 
It  took  some  time  for  the  sense  of  the  situation  to  penetrate 
John  Markley's  thick  skin;  whereupon  the  fight  began 
in  earnest,  and  men  around  town  said  that  John  Markley 
had  knocked  the  lid  off  his  barrel.  He  doubled  his  dona- 
tion to  the  county  campaign  fund ;  he  crowded  himself  at 
the  head  of  every  subscription-paper;  and  frequently  he 
brought  us  communications  to  print,  offering  to  give  as 
much  money  himself  for  the  library,  or  the  Provident  As- 
sociation, or  the  Y.M.C.A.,  as  the  rest  of  the  town  would 
subscribe  combined.  He  mended  church  roofs  under  which 
he  never  had  sat ;  he  bought  church  bells  whose  calls  he 
never  heeded ;  and  paid  the  greater  part  of  the  pipe-organ 
debts  in  two  stone  churches.  Colonel  Morrison  remarked 
in  the  office  one  day  that  John  Markley  was  raising  the 
price  of  popular  esteem  so  high  that  none  but  the  rich  could 
afford  it.  "But,"  chuckled  the  Colonel,  "I  notice  old  John 
hasn't  got  a  corner  on  it  yet,  and  he  doesn't  seem  to  have 
all  he  needs  for  his  own  use."  The  wrench  that  had  torn 
open  his  treasure-chest  had  also  loosened  John  Markley's 
hard  face,  and  he  had  begun  to  smile.  He  became  as  affable 


266  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

as  a  man  may  who  has  lived  for  fifty  years  silent  and  self- 
contained.  He  beamed  upon  his  old  friends,  and  once  or 
twice  a  week  he  went  the  rounds  of  the  stores  making  small 
purchases,  to  let  the  clerks  bask  in  his  sunlight. 

If  a  new  preacher  came  to  town  the  Markleys  went  to 
his  church,  and  Mrs.  Markley  tried  to  be  the  first  woman  to 
call  on  his  wife. 

All  the  noted  campaign  speakers  assigned  to  our  town 
were  invited  to  be  the  Markleys'  guests,  and  Mrs.  Markley 
sent  her  husband,  red-necktied,  high-hatted,  and  tailor- 
made,  to  the  train  to  meet  the  distinguished  guest.  If  the 
man  was  as  much  as  a  United  States  Senator,  Markley 
hired  the  band,  and  in  an  open  hack  rode  in  solemn  state 
with  his  prize  through  the  town  behind  the  tinkling  cym- 
bals, and  then,  with  much  punctility,  took  the  statesman 
up  and  down  Main  Street  afoot,  into  all  the  stores  and 
offices,  introducing  him  to  the  common  people.  At  such 
times  John  Markley  was  the  soul  of  cordiality ;  he  seemed 
hungry  for  a  kind  look  and  a  pleasant  word  with  his  old 
friends.  About  this  time  his  defiant  eyes  began  to  lose  their 
boring  points,  and  to  wander  and  hunt  for  something  they 
had  lost.  When  we  had  a  State  convention  of  the  dominant 
party,  the  Markleys  saw  to  it  that  the  Governor  and  all 
the  important  people  attending,  with  their  wives,  stopped 
in  the  big  house.  The  Markleys  gave  receptions  to  them, 
which  the  men  in  our  town  dared  not  ignore,  but  sent  their 
wives  away  visiting  and  went  alone.  This  familiarity  with 
politicians  probably  gave  the  Markleys  the  idea  that  they 
might  help  their  status  in  the  community  if  John  Markley 
ran  for  Governor.  He  announced  his  candidacy,  and  the 
Kansas  City  papers,  which  did  not  appreciate  the  local 
situation,  spoke  well  of  him ;  but  his  boom  died  in  the  first 
month,  when  some  of  his  old  friends  called  at  the  back 
room  of  the  bank  to  tell  him  that  the  Democrats  would  air 
his  family  affairs  if  he  made  another  move.  He  looked  up 


BY  THE  ROD  OF  HIS  WRATH  267 

pitiably  into  Ab  Handy's  face  when  the  men  were  done 
talking  and  said:  "Don't  you  suppose  they'll  ever  quit? 
Ain't  they  no  statute  of  limitation?"  And  then  he  arose 
and  stood  by  his  desk  with  one  arm  akimbo  and  his  other 
hand  at  his  temple  as  he  sighed :  "Oh,  hell,  Ab  —  what's 
the  use  ?  Tell  'em  I'm  out  of  it !" 

Mrs.  Markley  seems  to  have  shut  him  out  of  the  G.  A.R., 
thinking  maybe  that  the  old  boys  and  their  wives  were  not 
of  her  social  level,  or  perhaps  she  had  some  idea  of  playing 
even  with  them,  because  their  wives  had  not  recognized 
her ;  but  she  shut  away  much  of  her  husband's  social  com- 
fort when  she  barred  his  comrades,  and  they  in  turn  grew 
harder  toward  him  than  they  were  at  first.  As  the  Markleys 
entered  their  second  year,  Mrs.  Markley  alone  in  the  big 
house,  with  only  the  new  people  from  the  hotel  to  eat  her 
dinners,  and  with  only  the  beer-drinldng  crowd  from  the 
West  Side  to  dance  in  the  attic  ballroom,  had  much  time  to 
think,  and  she  bethought  her  of  the  lecturers  who  were 
upon  the  college  lecture  course,  whereupon  John  Markley 
had  to  carve  for  authors  and  explorers,  and  an  occasional 
Senator  or  Congressman,  who,  after  a  hard  evening's  work 
on  the  platform,  paid  for  his  dinner  and  lodging  by  sitting 
up  on  a  gilded  high-backed  and  uncomfortable  chair  in  the 
stately  reception-room  of  the  Markley  home,  talking  John 
Markley  into  a  snore,  before  Isabel  let  them  go  to  bed. 
Isabel  sent  the  accounts  of  these  affairs  to  the  office  for  us 
to  print,  with  the  lists  of  invited  guests,  who  never  ac- 
cepted. And  the  town  grinned. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  John  Markley's  fat  wit  told  him 
that  it  was  a  losing  fight.  He  had  been  dropped  from  the 
head  of  the  Merchants'  Association ;  he  was  cut  off  from 
the  executive  committee  of  the  Fair ;  he  was  not  asked  to 
serve  on  the  railroad  committee.  His  old  friends,  whom  he 
asked  over  to  spend  the  evening  at  his  house,  always  had 
good  excuses,  which  they  gave  him  later  over  the  tele- 


268  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

phone,  and  their  wives,  who  used  to  call  him  by  his  first 
name,  scarcely  recognized  him  on  the  street.  He  quit  com- 
ing to  our  office  with  pieces  for  the  paper  telling  the  town 
his  views  on  this  or  that  local  matter ;  and  gradually  gave 
up  the  fight  for  his  old  place  on  the  school  board. 

The  clerks  in  the  Markley  Mortgage  Company  office  say 
that  he  fell  into  a  moody  way,  and  would  come  to  the  office 
and  refuse  to  speak  to  any  one  for  hours.  Also,  as  the  big 
house  often  glowed  until  midnight  for  a  dance  of  the  so- 
cially impossible  who  used  the  Markley  ballroom,  rent  free, 
as  a  convenience,  John  Markley  grew  to  have  a  sleepy  look 
by  day,  and  lines  came  into  his  red,  shaved  face.  He  grew 
anxious  about  his  health,  and  a  hundred  worries  tightened 
his  belt  and  shook  his  great  fat  hand  just  the  least  in  the 
world,  and  when  through  some  gossip  that  his  wife  brought 
him  from  the  kitchen  he  felt  the  scorn  of  an  old  friend  burn 
his  soul  like  a  caustic,  for  many  days  he  would  brood  over  it. 
Finally  care  began  to  chisel  down  his  flinty  face,  to  cut  the 
fat  from  his  bull  neck,  so  that  the  cords  stood  out,  and, 
through  staring  in  impotent  rage  and  pain  at  the  ceiling 
in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  red  rims  began  to  worm 
around  his  eyes.  He  was  not  sixty  years  old  then,  end  he 
had  lashed  himself  into  seventy. 

However,  his  money-cunning  did  not  grow  dull.  He  kept 
his  golden  touch,  and  his  impotent  dollars  piled  higher  and 
higher.  The  pile  must  have  mocked  Isabel  Markley,  for  it 
could  bring  her  nothing  that  she  wanted.  She  stopped  try- 
ing to  give  big  parties  and  receptions.  Her  social  efforts 
tapered  down  to  little  dinners  for  the  new  people  in  town. 
But  as  the  dinner  hour  grew  near  she  raged  —  so  the  serv- 
ants said  —  whenever  the  telephone  rang,  and  in  the  end 
she  had  to  give  up  even  the  dinner  scheme. 

So  there  came  a  time  when  they  began  to  take  trips  to 
the  seashore  and  the  mountains,  flitting  from  hotel  to  hotel. 
In  the  office  we  knew  when  they  changed  quarters,  for  at 


BY  THE  ROD  OF  HIS  WRATH  269 

each  resort  John  Markley  would  see  the  reporters  and  give 
out  a  long  interview,  which  was  generally  prefaced  by  the 
statement  that  he  was  a  prominent  Western  capitalist,  who 
had  refused  the  nomination  for  Governor  or  for  Senator, 
or  for  whatever  Isabel  Markley  happened  to  think  of ;  and 
papers  containing  these  interviews,  marked  in  green  ink, 
came  addressed  to  the  office  in  her  stylish,  angular  hand. 
During  grand-opera  season  one  might  see  the  Markleys 
hanging  about  the  great  hotels  of  Chicago  or  Kansas  City, 
he  a  tired,  sleepy-faced,  prematurely  old  man,  who  seemed 
to  be  counting  the  hours  till  bedtime,  and  she  a  tailored, 
rather  overfed  figure,  with  a  freshly  varnished  face  and 
unhealthy,  bright,  bold  eyes,  walking  slightly  ahead  of  her 
shambling  companion,  looking  nervously  about  her  in 
search  of  some  indefinite  thing  that  was  gone  from  her  life. 

One  day  John  Markley  shuffled  into  our  office,  bedizened 
as  usual,  and  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  several  minutes 
before  he  could  find  the  copy  of  the  Mexican  Herald  con- 
taining the  news  of  his  boy's  death  in  Vera  Cruz.  He  had 
passed  the  time  of  life  for  tears ;  yet,  when  he  asked  us  to 
reprint  the  item,  he  said  sadly:  "The  old  settlers  will 
remember  him  —  maybe.  I  don't  know  whether  they  will 
or  not."  He  seemed  a  pitiful  figure  as  he  dragged  himself 
out  of  the  office  —  so  stooped  and  weazened  and  so  utterly 
alone,  but  when  he  turned  around  and  came  back  upon 
some  second  thought,  his  teeth  snapped  viciously  as  he 
snarled :  "Here,  give  it  back.  I  guess  I  don't  want  it 
printed.  They  don't  care  for  me,  anyway." 

The  boys  in  his  office  told  the  boys  in  our  office  that  the 
old  man  was  cross  and  petulant  that  year,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  Isabel  Markley  was  beginning  to  find  her  mess 
of  pottage  bitter.  The  women  around  town,  who  have  a 
wireless  system  of  collecting  news,  said  that  the  Markleys 
quarreled,  and  that  she  was  cruel  to  him.  Certain  it  is  that 
she  began  to  feed  on  young  boys,  and  made  the  old  fellow 


270  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

sit  up  in  his  evening  clothes  until  impossible  hours,  for 
sheer  appearance'  sake,  while  his  bed  was  piled  with  the 
wraps  of  boys  and  girls  from  what  our  paper  called  the 
Hand-Holders'  Union,  who  were  invading  the  Markley 
home,  eating  the  Markley  olives  and  canned  lobster,  and 
dancing  to  the  music  of  the  Markley  pianola.  Occasionally 
a  young  traveling  man  would  be  spoken  of  by  these  young 
people  as  Isabel  Markley's  "fellow." 

Mrs.  Markley  began  to  make  fun  of  her  husband  to  the 
girls  of  the  third-rate  dancing  set  whose  mothers  let  them 
go  to  her  house;  also,  she  reviled  John  Markley  to  the 
servants.  It  was  known  in  the  town  that  she  nicknamed 
him  the  "  Goat."  As  for  Markley,  the  fight  was  gone  from 
him,  and  his  whole  life  was  devoted  to  getting  money. 
That  part  of  his  brain  which  knew  the  accumulative  secret 
kept  its  tireless  energy ;  but  his  emotions,  his  sensibilities, 
his  passions  seemed  to  be  either  atrophied  or  burned  out, 
and,  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  back  room  of  the  Mortgage 
Company's  offices,  he  looked  like  a  busy  spider  spinning 
his  web  of  gold  around  the  town.  It  was  the  town  theory 
that  he  and  Isabel  must  have  fought  it  out  to  a  finish  about 
the  night  sessions ;  for  there  came  a  time  when  he  went  to 
bed  at  nine  o'clock,  and  she  either  lighted  up  and  prepared 
to  celebrate  with  the  cheap  people  at  home,  or  attached  one 
of  her  young  men,  and  went  out  to  some  impossible  gather- 
ing—  generally  where  there  was  much  beer,  and  many 
risqu$  things  said,  and  the  women  were  all  good  fellows. 
And  thus  another  year  flew  by. 

One  night,  when  the  great  house  was  still,  John  Markley 
grew  sick,  and,  in  the  terror  of  death  that,  his  office  people 
say,  was  always  with  him,  rose  to  call  for  help.  In  the  dark 
hall,  feeling  for  an  electric-light  switch,  he  must  have  lost 
his  way,  for  he  fell  down  the  hard  oak  stairs.  It  was  never 
known  how  long  he  lay  there  unable  to  move  one  half  of  his 
body,  but  his  wife  stood  nearly  an  hour  at  the  front  door 


BY  THE  ROD  OF  HIS  WRATH  271 

that  night,  and  when  she  finally  switched  on  the  light,  she 
and  the  man  with  her  saw  Markley  lying  before  them  with 
one  eye  shut  and  with  half  his  face  withered  and  dead,  the 
other  half  around  the  open  eye  quivering  with  hate.  He 
choked  on  an  oath,  and  shook  at  her  a  gnarled  bare  arm. 
Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her  tongue  was  unsure,  but  she 
laughed  a  shrill,  wicked  laugh  and  cried:  "Ah,  you  old 
goat ;  don't  you  double  your  fist  at  me  !" 

Whereupon  she  shuddered  away  from  the  shaking  figure 
at  her  feet  and  scurried  upstairs.  And  the  man  standing  in 
the  doorway,  wondering  what  the  old  man  had  heard,  wak- 
ened the  house,  and  helped  to  carry  John  Markley  upstairs 
to  his  bed. 

It  was  nearly  three  months  before  he  could  be  wheeled 
to  his  office,  where  he  still  sits  every  day,  spinning  his 
golden  web  and  filling  his  soul  with  poison.  They  say  that, 
helpless  as  he  is,  he  may  live  for  a  score  of  years.  Isabel 
Markley  knows  how  old  she  will  be  then.  A  thousand  times 
she  has  counted  it. 

To  see  our  town  of  a  summer  twilight,  with  the  families 
riding  abroad  behind  their  good  old  nags,  under  the  over- 
hanging elms  that  meet  above  our  newly  paved  streets,  one 
would  not  think  that  there  could  exist  in  so  lovely  a  place 
as  miserable  a  creature  as  John  Markley  is ;  or  as  Isabel, 
his  wife,  for  that  matter.  The  town  —  out  beyond  Main 
Street,  which  is  always  dreary  and  ugly  with  tin  gorgons  on 
the  cornices  —  the  town  is  a  great  grove  springing  from  a 
bluegrass  sod,  with  porch  boxes  making  flecks  of  color 
among  the  vines ;  cannas  and  elephant  ears  and  foliage 
plants  rise  from  the  wide  lawns ;  and  children  bloom  like 
moving  flowers  all  through  the  picture. 

There  are  certain  streets,  like  the  one  past  the  Markley 
mansion,  upon  which  we  make  it  a  point  always  to  drive 
with  our  visitors  —  show  streets  we  may  as  well  frankly 
call  them  —  and  one  of  these  leads  down  a  wide,  handsome 


27S  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

street  out  to  the  college.  There  the  town  often  goes  in  its 
best  bib  and  tucker  to  hear  the  lecturers  whom  Mrs. 
Markley  feeds.  Last  winter  one  came  who  converted  Dan 
Gregg  —  once  Governor,  but  for  ten  years  best  known 
among  us  as  the  town  infidel.  The  lecturer  explained  how 
matter  had  probably  evolved  from  some  one  form  —  even 
the  elements  coming  in  a  most  natural  way  from  a  com- 
mon source.  He  made  it  plain  that  all  matter  is  but  a  form 
of  motion ;  that  atoms  themselves  are  divided  into  ions  and 
corpuscles,  which  are  merely  different  forms  of  electrical 
motion,  and  that  all  this  motion  seems  to  tend  to  one  form, 
which  is  the  spirit  of  the  universe.  Dan  said  he  had  found 
God  there,  and,  although  the  pious  were  shocked,  in  our 
office  we  were  glad  that  Dan  had  found  his  God  anywhere. 
While  we  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  office  one  fine  evening 
this  spring,  looking  at  the  stars  and  talking  of  Dan  Gregg's 
God  and  ours,  we  began  to  wonder  whether  or  not  the  God 
that  is  the  spirit  of  things  at  the  base  of  this  material  world 
might  not  be  indeed  the  spirit  that  moves  men  to  execute 
his  laws.  Men  in  the  colleges  to-day  think  they  have  found 
the  moving  spirit  of  matter ;  but  do  they  know  his  wonder- 
ful being  as  well  as  the  old  Hebrew  prophets  knew  it  who 
wrote  the  Psalms  and  the  Proverbs  and  the  wisdom  of  the 
Great  Book  ?  That  brought  us  back  to  the  old  question 
about  John  Markley.  Was  it  God,  moving  in  us,  that  pun- 
ished Markley  "by  the  rod  of  his  wrath,"  that  used  our 
hearts  as  wireless  stations  for  his  displeasure  to  travel 
through,  or  was  it  the  chance  prejudice  of  a  simple  people  ? 
It  was  late  when  we  broke  up  and  left  the  office  —  Dan 
Gregg,  Henry  Larmy,  the  reporter,  and  old  George.  As 
we  parted,  looking  up  at  the  stars  where  our  ways  divided 
out  under  the  elms,  we  heard,  far  up  Exchange  Street,  the 
clatter  of  the  pianola  in  the  Markley  home,  and  saw  the 
high  windows  glowing  like  lost  souls  in  the  night. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER* 
BY  O.  HENRY 

BESIDES  many  other  things,  Haggles  was  a  poet.  He  was 
called  a  tramp;  but  that  was  only  an  elliptical  way  of 
saying  that  he  was  a  philosopher,  an  artist,  a  traveler,  a 
naturalist,  and  a  discoverer.  But  most  of  all  he  was  a  poet. 


In  all  hi 


life  he  never  wrote  a  line  of  verse ;  he  lived  his 


poetry.  ]  lis  Odyssey  would  have  been  a  Limerick,  had  it 
been  wri  ten.  But,  to  linger  with  the  primary  proposition, 
Haggles  vas  a  poet. 

Raggles's  specialty,  had  he  been  driven  to  ink  and  paper, 
would  have  been  sonnets  to  the  cities.  He  studied  cities  as 
women  study  their  reflections  in  mirrors ;  as  children  study 
the  glue  and  sawdust  of  a  dislocated  doll ;  as  the  men  who 
write  about  wild  animals  study  the  cages  in  the  zoo.  A 
city  to  Raggles  was  not  merely  a  pile  of  bricks  and  mortar, 
peopled  by  a  certain  number  of  inhabitants ;  it  was  a  thing 
with  a  soul  characteristic  and  distinct ;  an  individual  con- 
glomeration of  life,  with  its  own  peculiar  essence,  flavor, 
and  feeling.  Two  thousand  miles  to  the  north  and  south, 
east  and  west,  Raggles  wandered  in  poetic  fervor,  taking 
the  cities  to  his  breast.  He  footed  it  on  dusty  roads,  or 
sped  magnificently  in  freight  cars,  counting  time  as  of  no 
account.  And  when  he  had  found  the  heart  of  a  city  and 
listened  to  its  secret  confession,  he  strayed  on,  restless,  to 
another.  Fickle  Raggles !  —  but  perhaps  he  had  not  met 
the  civic  corporation  that  could  engage  and  hold  his  critical 
fancy. 

Through  the  ancient  poets  we  have  learned  that  the 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Trimmed  Lamp,  by  O.  Henry. 
Copyright,  1907,  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company. 


274  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

cities  are  feminine.  So  they  were  to  poet  Haggles ;  and  his 
mind  carried  a  concrete  and  clear  conception  of  the  figure 
that  symbolized  and  typified  each  one  that  he  had  wooed. 

Chicago  seemed  to  swoop  down  upon  him  with  a  breezy 
suggestion  of  Mrs.  Partington,  plumes  and  patchouli,  and 
to  disturb  his  rest  with  a  soaring  and  beautiful  song  of 
future  promise.  But  Raggles  would  awake  to  a  sense  of 
shivering  cold  and  a  haunting  impression  of  ideals  lost  in  a 
depressing  aura  of  potato  salad  and  fish. 

Thus  Chicago  affected  him.  Perhaps  there  is  a  vague- 
ness and  inaccuracy  in  the  description ;  but  that  is  Raggles 's 
fault.  He  should  have  recorded  his  sensations  in  magazine 
poems. 

Pittsburgh  impressed  him  as  the  play  of  Othello  per- 
formed in  the  Russian  language  in  a  railroad  station  by 
Dockstader's  minstrels.  A  royal  and  generous  lady  this 
Pittsburgh,  though  —  homely,  hearty,  with  flushed  face, 
washing  the  dishes  in  a  silk  dress  and  white  kid  slippers, 
and  bidding  Raggles  sit  before  the  roaring  fireplace  and 
drink  champagne  with  his  pigs'  feet  and  fried  potatoes. 

New  Orleans  had  simply  gazed  down  upon  him  from  a 
balcony.  He  could  see  her  pensive,  starry  eyes  and  catch 
the  flutter  of  her  fan,  and  that  was  all.  Only  once  he  came 
face  tq  face  with  her.  It  was  at  dawn,  when  she  was  flush- 
ing the  red  bricks  of  the  banquette  with  a  pail  of  water. 
She  laughed  and  hummed  a  chansonnette  and  filled  Rag- 
gles's  shoes  with  ice-cold  water.  Attons! 

Boston  construed  herself  to  the  poetic  Raggles  in  an 
erratic  and  singular  way.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
drunk  cold  tea  and  that  the  city  was  a  white,  cold  cloth 
that  had  been  bound  tightly  around  his  brow  to  spur  him 
to  some  unknown  but  tremendous  mental  effort.  And, 
after  all,  he  came  to  shovel  snow  for  a  livelihood ;  and  the 
cloth,  becoming  wet,  tightened  its  knots  and  could  not  be 
removed. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER  275 

Indefinite  and  unintelligible  ideas,  you  will  say;  but 
your  disapprobation  should  be  tempered  with  gratitude, 
for  these  are  poets'  fancies  —  and  suppose  you  had  come 
upon  them  in  verse  ! 

One  day  Haggles  came  and  laid  siege  to  the  heart  of  the 
great  city  of  Manhattan.  She  was  the  greatest  of  all ;  and 
he  wanted  to  learn  her  note  in  the  scale ;  to  taste  and  ap- 
praise and  classify  and  solve  and  label  her,  and  arrange  her 
with  the  other  cities  that  had  given  him  up  the  secret  of 
their  individuality.  And  here  we  cease  to  be  Raggles's 
translator  and  become  his  chronicler. 

Raggles  landed  from  a  ferry-boat  one  morning  and 
walked  into  the  core  of  the  town  with  the  blase  air  of  a 
cosmopolite.  He  was  dressed  with  care  to  play  the  role  of 
an  "unidentified  man."  No  country,  race,  class,  clique, 
union,  party,  clan,  or  bowling  association  could  have 
claimed  him.  His  clothing,  which  had  been  donated  to  him 
piecemeal  by  citizens  of  different  height,  but  same  number 
of  inches  around  the  heart,  was  not  yet  as  uncomfortable 
to  his  figure  as  those  specimens  of  raiment,  self -measured, 
that  are  railroaded  to  you  by  transcontinental  tailors  with 
a  suitcase,  suspenders,  silk  handkerchief,  and  pearl  studs 
as  a  bonus.  Without  money  —  as  a  poet  should  be  —  but 
with  the  ardor  of  an  astronomer  discovering  a  new  star 
in  the  chorus  of  the  Milky  Way,  or  a  man  who  has  seen 
ink  suddenly  flow  from  his  fountain  pen,  Raggles  wan- 
dered into  the  great  city. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  drew  out  of  the  roar  and  com- 
motion with  a  look  of  dumb  terror  on  his  countenance.  He 
was  defeated,  puzzled,  discomfited,  frightened.  Other 
cities  had  been  to  him  as  long  primer  to  read ;  as  country 
maidens  quickly  to  fathom ;  as  send-price-of-subscription- 
with-answer  rebuses  to  solve ;  as  oyster  cocktails  to  swal- 
low; but  here  was  one  as  cold,  glittering,  serene,  impos- 
sible as  a  four-carat  diamond  in  a  window  to  a  lover  outside 


276  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

fingering  damply  in  his  pocket  his  ribbon-counter  salary. 

The  greetings  of  the  other  cities  he  had  known  —  their 
homespun  kindliness,  their  human  gamut  of  rough  char- 
ity, friendly  curses,  garrulous  curiosity,  and  easily  esti- 
mated credulity  or  indifference.  This  city  of  Manhattan 
gave  him  no  clue ;  it  was  walled  against  him.  Like  a  river 
of  adamant  it  flowed  past  him  in  the  streets.  Never  an  eye 
was  turned  upon  him;  no  voice  spoke  to  him.  His  heart 
yearned  for  the  clap  of  Pittsburgh's  sooty  hand  on  his 
shoulder;  for  Chicago's  menacing  but  social  yawp  in  his 
ear ;  for  the  pale  and  eleemosynary  stare  through  the  Bos- 
tonian  eyeglass  —  even  for  the  precipitate  but  unmalicious 
boot-toe  of  Louisville  or  St.  Louis. 

On  Broadway  Haggles,  successful  suitor  of  many  cities, 
stood,  bashful,  like  any  country  swain.  For  the  first  time 
he  experienced  the  poignant  humiliation  of  being  ignored. 
And  when  he  tried  to  reduce  this  brilliant,  swiftly  chang- 
ing, ice-cold  city  to  a  formula  he  failed  utterly.  Poet 
though  he  was,  it  offered  him  no  color  similes,  no  points  of 
comparison,  no  flaw  in  its  polished  facets,  no  handle  by 
which  he  could  hold  it  up  and  view  its  shape  and  structure, 
as  he  familiarly  and  often  contemptuously  had  done  with 
other  towns.  The  houses  were  interminable  ramparts  loop- 
holed  for  defense;  the  people  were  bright  but  bloodless 
specters  passing  in  sinister  and  selfish  array. 

The  thing  that  weighed  heaviest  on  Raggles's  soul  and 
clogged  his  poet's  fancy  was  the  spirit  of  absolute  egotism 
that  seemed  to  saturate  the  people  as  toys  are  saturated 
with  paint.  Each  one  that  he  considered  appeared  a  mon- 
ster of  abominable  and  insolent  conceit.  Humanity  was 
gone  from  them;  they  were  toddling  idols  of  stone  and 
varnish,  worshiping  themselves  and  greedy  for  though 
oblivious  of  worship  from  their  fellow  graven  images. 
Frozen,  cruel,  implacable,  impervious,  cut  to  an  identical 
pattern,  they  hurried  on  their  ways  like  statues  brought  by 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER  277 

some  miracles  to  motion,  while  soul  and  feeling  lay  un- 
aroused  in  the  reluctant  marble. 

Gradually  Raggles  became  conscious  of  certain  types. 
One  was  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  snow-white,  short 
beard,  pink,  unwrinkled  face,  and  stony,  sharp  blue  eyes, 
attired  in  the  fashion  of  a  gilded  youth,  who  seemed  to 
personify  the  city's  wealth,  ripeness,  and  frigid  unconcern. 
Another  type  was  a  woman,  tall,  beautiful,  clear  as  a  steel 
engraving,  goddess-like,  calm,  clothed  like  the  princesses 
of  old,  with  eyes  as  coldly  blue  as  the  reflection  of  sunlight 
on  a  glacier.  And  another  was  a  by-product  of  this  town 
of  marionettes  —  a  broad,  swaggering,  grim,  threateningly 
sedate  fellow,  with  a  jowl  as  large  as  a  harvested  wheat- 
field,  the  complexion  of  a  baptized  infant,  and  the  knuckles 
of  a  prize-fighter.  This  type  leaned  against  cigar  signs  and 
viewed  the  world  with  frappeed  contumely. 

A  poet  is  a  sensitive  creature,  and  Raggles  soon  shriveled 
in  the  bleak  embrace  of  the  undecipherable.  The  chill, 
sphinx-like,  ironical,  illegible,  unnatural,  ruthless  expres- 
sion of  the  city  left  him  downcast  and  bewildered.  Had  it 
no  heart?  Better  the  woodpile,  the  scolding  of  vinegar- 
faced  housewives  at  back  doors,  the  kindly  spleen  of  bar- 
tenders behind  provincial  free-lunch  counters,  the  amiable 
truculence  of  rural  constables,  the  kicks,  arrests*  and 
happy-go-lucky  chances  of  the  other  vulgar,  loud,  crude 
cities  than  this  freezing  heartlessness. 

Raggles  summoned  his  courage  and  sought  alms  from  the 
populace.  Unheeding,  regardless,  they  passed  on  without 
the  wink  of  an  eyelash  to  testify  that  they  were  conscious 
of  his  existence.  And  then  he  said  to  himself  that  this  fair 
but  pitiless  city  of  Manhattan  was  without  a  soul ;  that  its 
inhabitants  were  manikins  moved  by  wires  and  springs 
and  that  he  was  alone  in  a  great  wilderness. 

Raggles  started  to  cross  the  street.  There  was  a  blast, 
a  roar,  a  hissing,  and  a  crash  as  something  struck  him  and 


278  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

hurled  him  over  and  over  six  yards  from  where  he  had 
been.  As  he  was  coming  down  like  the  stick  of  a  rocket,  the 
earth  and  all  the  cities  thereof  turned  to  a  fractured  dream. 

Haggles  opened  his  eyes.  First  an  odor  made  itself 
known  to  him  —  an  odor  of  the  earliest  spring  flowers  of 
Paradise.  And  then  a  hand  soft  as  a  falling  petal  touched 
his  brow.  Bending  over  him  was  the  woman  clothed  like 
the  princesses  of  old,  with  blue  eyes,  now  soft  and  humid 
with  human  sympathy.  Under  his  head  on  the  pavement 
were  silks  and  furs.  With  Raggles's  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
with  his  face  pinker  than  ever  from  a  vehement  burst  of 
oratory  against  reckless  driving,  stood  the  elderly  gentle- 
man who  personified  the  city's  wealth  and  ripeness.  From 
a  near-by  cafe  hurried  the  by-product  with  the  vast  jowl 
and  baby  complexion,  bearing  a  glass  full  of  a  crimson 
fluid  that  suggested  delightful  possibilities. 

"Drink  dis,  sport,"  said  the  by-product,  holding  the 
glass  to  Raggles's  lips. 

Hundreds  of  people  huddled  around  in  a  moment,  their 
faces  wearing  the  deepest  concern.  Two  flattering  and 
gorgeous  policemen  got  into  the  circle  and  pressed  back  the 
overplus  of  Samaritans.  An  old  lady  in  a  black  shawl  spoke 
loudly  of  camphor;  a  newsboy  slipped  one  of  his  papers 
beneath  Raggles's  elbow,  where  it  lay  on  the  muddy  pave- 
ment. A  brisk  young  man  with  a  notebook  was  asking  for 
names. 

A  bell  clanged  importantly,  and  the  ambulance  cleaned 
a  lane  through  the  crowd.  A  cool  surgeon  slipped  into  the 
midst  of  affairs. 

"How  do  you  feel,  old  man  ?"  asked  the  surgeon,  stoop- 
ing easily  to  his  task. 

The  princess  of  silks  and  satins  wiped  a  red  drop  or  two 
from  Raggles's  brow  with  a  fragrant  cobweb. 

"Me  ?"  said  Haggles,  with  a  seraphic  smile,  "I  feel  fine." 

He  had  found  the  heart  of  his  new  city. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER  279 

In  three  days  they  let  him  leave  his  cot  for  the  con- 
valescent ward  in  the  hospital.  He  had  been  in  there  an 
hour  when  the  attendants  heard  sounds  of  conflict.  Upon 
investigation  they  found  that  Haggles  had  assaulted  and 
damaged  a  brother  convalescent  —  a  glowering  transient 
whom  a  freight  train  collision  had  sent  in  to  be  patched  up. 

"What's  all  this  about?"  inquired  the  head  nurse. 

"He  was  runnin'  down  me  town,"  said  Haggles. 

"What  town?"  asked  the  nurse. 

"Noo  York,"  said  Haggles. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT1 

BY  O.  HENRY 

The  cities  are  full  of  pride, 

Challenging  each  to  each  — 
This  from  her  mountainside, 

That  from  her  burthened  beach. 

R.  KIPLING 

Fancy  a  novel  about  Chicago  or  Buffalo,  let  us  say,  or  Nashville,  Tennessee! 
There  are  just  three  big  cities  in  the  United  States  that  are  ''story  cities" — 
New  York,  of  course,  New  Orleans,  and,  best  of  the  lot,  San  Francisco. 

FRANK  NORRIS 

EAST  is  East,  and  West  is  San  Francisco,  according  to  Cali- 
fornians.  Calif ornians  are  a  race  of  people ;  they  are  not 
merely  inhabitants  of  a  State.  They  are  the  Southerners 
of  the  West.  Now,  Chicagoans  are  no  less  loyal  to  their 
city ;  but  when  you  ask  them  why,  they  stammer  and  speak 
of  lake  fish  and  the  new  Odd  Fellows'  Building.  But  Cali- 
fornians  go  into  detail. 

Of  course  they  have,  in  the  climate,  an  argument  that  is 
good  for  half  an  hour  while  you  are  thinking  of  yoar  coal 
bills  and  heavy  underwear.  But  as  soon  as  they  come  to 
mistake  your  silence  for  conviction,  madness  comes  upon 
them,  and  they  picture  the  city  of  the  Golden  Gate  as  the 
Bagdad  of  the  New  World.  So  far,  as  a  matter  of  opinion, 
no  refutation  is  necessary.  But,  dear  cousins  all  (from 
Adam  and  Eve  descended),  it  is  a  rash  one  who  will  lay  his 
finger  on  the  map  and  say :  "  In  this  town  there  can  be  no 
romance  —  what  could  happen  here?"  Yes,  it  is  a  bold 
and  a  rash  deed  to  challenge  in  one  sentence  history, 
romance,  and  Rand  and  McNally. 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Strictly  Business,  by  O.  Henry.  Copy- 
right, 1911,  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  281 

NASHVILLE. —  A  city,  port  of  delivery,  and  the  capital  of  the 
State  of  Tennessee,  is  on  the  Cumberland  River  and  on  the  N.  C. 
&  St.  L.  and  the  L.  &  N.  railroads.  This  city  is  regarded  as  the 
most  important  educational  center  in  the  South. 

I  stepped  off  the  train  at  8  P.M.  Having  searched  the 
thesaurus  in  vain  for  adjectives,  I  must,  as  a  substitution, 
hie  me  to  comparison  in  the  form  of  a  recipe. 

Take  of  London  fog  30  parts ;  malaria  10  parts ;  gas  leaks 
20  parts ;  dewdrops  gathered  in  a  brickyard  at  sunrise,  25 
parts;  odor  of  honeysuckle  15  parts.  Mix. 

The  mixture  will  give  you  an  approximate  conception  of 
a  Nashville  drizzle.  It  is  not  so  fragrant  as  a  moth-ball 
nor  as  thick  as  pea-soup ;  but  'tis  enough  —  'twill  serve. 

I  went  to  a  hotel  in  a  tumbril.  It  required  strong  self- 
suppression  for  me  to  keep  from  climbing  to  the  top  of  it 
and  giving  an  imitation  of  Sidney  Carton.  The  vehicle  was 
drawn  by  beasts  of  a  bygone  era  and  driven  by  something 
dark  and  emancipated. 

I  was  sleepy  and  tired,  so  when  I  got  to  the  hotel  I  hur- 
riedly paid  it  the  fifty  cents  it  demanded  (with  approxi- 
mate lagniappe,  I  assure  you).  I  knew  its  habits ;  and  I  did 
not  want  to  hear  it  prate  about  its  old  "marster"  or  any- 
thing that  happened  "  befo*  de  wah." 

The  hotel  was  one  of  the  kind  described  as  "renovated." 
That  means  twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  new  marble 
pillars,  tiling,  electric  lights  and  brass  cuspidors  in  the 
lobby,  and  a  new  L.  &  N.  time-table  and  a  lithograph  of 
Lookout  Mountain  in  each  one  of  the  great  rooms  above. 
The  management  was  without  reproach,  the  attention  full 
of  exquisite  Southern  courtesy,  the  service  as  slow  as  the 
progress  of  a  snail  and  as  good-humored  as  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
The  food  was  worth  traveling  a  thousand  miles  for.  There 
is  no  other  hotel  in  the  world  where  you  can  get  such 
chicken  livers  en  brochette. 

At  dinner  I  asked  a  negro  waiter  if  there  was  anything 


AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

doing  in  town.  He  pondered  gravely  for  a  minute,  and  then 
replied :  "Well,  boss,  I  don't  really  reckon  there's  anything 
at  all  doin'  after  sundown." 

Sundown  had  been  accomplished ;  it  had  been  drowned 
in  the  drizzle  long  before.  So  that  spectacle  was  denied  me. 
But  I  went  forth  upon  the  streets  in  the  drizzle  to  see  what 
might  be  there. 

It  is  built  on  undulating  grounds ;  and  the  streets  are  lighted  by 
electricity  at  a  cost  of  $32,470  per  annum. 

As  I  left  the  hotel  there  was  a  race  riot.  Down  upon  me 
charged  a  company  of  freedmen,  or  Arabs,  or  Zulus,  armed 
with  —  no,  I  saw  with  relief  that  they  were  not  rifles,  but 
whips.  And  I  saw  dimly  a  caravan  of  black,  clumsy 
vehicles;  and  at  the  reassuring  shouts.  "Kyar  you  any- 
where in  the  town,  boss,  f uh  fifty  cents,"  I  reasoned  that  I 
was  merely  a  "fare"  instead  of  a  victim. 

I  walked  through  long  streets,  all  leading  uphill.  I 
wondered  how  those  streets  ever  came  down  again.  Per- 
haps they  didn't  until  they  were  "  graded."  On  a  few  of  the 
"  main  streets "  I  saw  lights  in  stores  here  and  there ;  saw 
street-cars  go  by  conveying  worthy  burghers  hither  and 
yon ;  saw  people  pass  engaged  in  the  art  of  conversation ; 
and  heard  a  burst  of  semi-lively  laughter  issuing  from  a 
soda-water  and  ice-cream  parlor.  The  streets  other  than 
"  main  "  seemed  to  have  enticed  upon  then*  borders  houses 
consecrated  to  peace  and  domesticity.  In  many  of  them 
lights  shone  behind  discreetly  drawn  window  shades ;  in  a 
few,  pianos  tinkled  orderly  and  irreproachable  music.  There 
was,  indeed,  little  "  doing."  I  wished  I  had  come  before  sun- 
down. So  I  returned  to  my  hotel. 

In  November,  1864,  the  Confederate  General  Hood  advanced 
against  Nashville,  where  he  shut  up  a  National  force  under 
General  Thomas.  The  latter  then  sallied  forth  and  defeated  the 
Confederates  in  a  terrible  conflict. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  283 

All  my  life  I  have  heard  of,  admired,  and  witnessed  the 
fine  marksmanship  of  the  South  in  its  peaceful  conflicts  in 
the  tobacco-chewing  regions.  But  in  my  hotel  a  surprise 
awaited  me.  There  were  twelve  bright,  new,  imposing, 
capacious  brass  cuspidors  in  the  great  lobby,  tall  enough  to 
be  called  urns  and  so  wide-mouthed  that  the  crack  pitcher 
of  a  lady  baseball  team  should  have  been  able  to  throw  a 
ball  into  one  of  them  at  five  paces  distant.  But,  although 
a  terrible  battle  had  raged  and  was  still  raging,  the  enemy 
had  not  suffered.  Bright,  new,  imposing,  capacious,  un- 
touched, they  stood.  But,  shades  of  Jefferson  Brick !  the 
tile  floor  —  the  beautiful  tile  floor !  I  could  not  avoid  think- 
ing of  the  battle  of  Nashville,  and  trying  to  draw,  as  is  my 
foolish  habit,  some  deductions  about  hereditary  marks- 
manship. 

Here  I  first  saw  Major  (by  misplaced  courtesy)  Went- 
worth  Caswell.  I  knew  him  for  a  type  the  moment  my 
eyes  suffered  from  the  sight  of  him.  A  rat  has  no  geographi- 
cal habitat.  My  old  friend,  A.  Tennyson,  said,  as  he  so  well 
said  almost  everything : 

"Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat." 

Let  us  regard  the  word  "British"  as  interchangeable 
ad  lib.  A  rat  is  a  rat. 

This  man  was  hunting  about  the  hotel  lobby  like  a 
starved  dog  that  had  forgotten  where  he  had  buried  a  bone. 
He  had  a  face  of  great  acreage,  red,  pulpy,  and  with  a  kind 
of  sleepy  massiveness  like  that  of  Buddha.  He  possessed 
one  single  virtue  —  he  was  very  smoothly  shaven.  The 
mark  of  the  beast  is  not  indelible  upon  a  man  until  he  goes 
about  with  a  stubble.  I  think  that  if  he  had  not  used  his 
razor  that  day  I  would  have  repulsed  his  advances,  and  the 
criminal  calendar  of  the  world  would  have  been  spared  the 
addition  of  one  murder. 

I  happened  to  be  standing  within  five  feet  of  a  cuspidor 


284  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

when  Major  Caswell  opened  fire  upon  it.  I  had  been 
observant  enough  to  perceive  that  the  attacking  force  was 
using  Gatlings  instead  of  squirrel  rifles ;  so  I  side-stepped 
so  promptly  that  the  Major  seized  the  opportunity  to 
apologize  to  a  non-combatant.  He  had  the  blabbing  lip.  In 
four  minutes  he  had  become  my  friend  and  had  dragged 
me  to  the  bar. 

I  desire  to  interpolate  here  that  I  am  a  Southerner.  But 
I  am  not  one  by  profession  or  trade.  I  eschew  the  string 
tie,  the  slouch  hat,  the  Prince  Albert,  the  number  of  bales 
of  cotton  destroyed  by  Sherman,  and  plug  chewing.  When 
the  orchestra  plays  "  Dixie  "  I  do  not  cheer.  I  slide  a  little 
lower  on  the  leather-cornered  seat  and  —  well  —  order 
another  Wiirzburger  and  wish  that  Longstreet  had  —  but 
what's  the  use? 

Major  Caswell  banged  the  bar  with  his  fist,  and  the  first 
gun  at  Fort  Sumter  reechoed.  When  he  fired  the  last  one 
at  Appomattox  I  began  to  hope.  But  then  he  began  on 
family  trees,  and  demonstrated  that  Adam  was  only  a  third 
cousin  of  a  collateral  branch  of  the  Caswell  family.  Gene- 
alogy disposed  of,  he  took  up,  to  my  distaste,  his  private 
family  matters.  He  spoke  of  his  wife,  traced  her  descent 
back  to  Eve,  and  profanely  denied  any  possible  rumoi  that 
she  may  have  had  relations  in  the  land  of  Nod. 

By  this  time  I  began  to  suspect  that  he  was  trying  to 
obscure  by  noise  the  fact  that  he  had  ordered  the  drinks, 
on  the  chance  that  I  would  be  bewildered  into  paying  for 
them.  But  when  they  were  down  he  crashed  a  silver  dollar 
loudly  upon  the  bar.  Then,  of  course,  another  serving  was 
obligatory.  And  when  I  had  paid  for  that  I  took  leave  of 
him  brusquely ;  for  I  wanted  no  more  of  him.  But  before 
I  had  obtained  my  release  he  had  prated  loudly  of  an 
income  that  his  wife  received,  and  showed  a  handful  of 
silver  money. 

When  I  got  my  key  at  the  desk  the  clerk  said  to  me  cour- 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  285 

teously :  "If  that  man  Caswell  has  annoyed  you,  and  if  you 
would  like  to  make  a  complaint,  we  will  have  him  ejected. 
He  is  a  nuisance,  a  loafer,  and  without  any  known  means  of 
support,  although  he  seems  to  have  some  money  most  of 
the  time.  But  we  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  hit  upon  any 
means  of  throwing  him  out  legally." 

"Why,  no,"  said  I,  after  some  reflection ;  "I  don't  see  my 
way  clear  to  making  a  complaint.  But  I  would  like  to  place 
myself  on  record  as  asserting  that  I  do  not  care  for  his  com- 
pany. Your  town,"  I  continued,  "seems  to  be  a  quiet  one. 
What  manner  of  entertainment,  adventure,  or  excitement 
have  you  to  offer  to  the  stranger  within  your  gates  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  "there  will  be  a  show  here 
next  Thursday.  It  is  —  I'll  look  it  up  and  have  the  an- 
nouncement sent  up  to  your  room  with  the  ice  water. 
Good-night." 

After  I  went  up  to  my  room  I  looked  out  the  window. 
It  was  only  about  ten  o'clock,  but  I  looked  upon  a  silent 
town.  The  drizzle  continued,  spangled  with  dim  lights, 
as  far  apart  as  currants  in  a  cake  sold  at  the  Ladies' 
Exchange. 

"A  quiet  place,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  my  first  shoe  struck 
the  ceiling  of  the  occupant  of  the  room  beneath  mine. 
"Nothing  of  the  life  here  that  gives  color  and  variety  to 
the  cities  in  the  East  and  West.  Just  a  good,  ordinary, 
humdrum,  business  town." 

Nashville  occupies  a  foremost  place  among  the  manufacturing 
centers  of  the  country.  It  is  the  fifth  boot  and  shoe  market  in  the 
United  States,  the  largest  candy  and  cracker  manufacturing  city 
in  the  South,  and  does  an  enormous  wholesale  dry-goods,  grocery, 
and  drug  business. 

I  must  tell  you  how  I  came  to  be  in  Nashville,  and  I 
assure  you  the  digression  brings  as  much  tedium  to  me  as  it 
does  to  you.  I  was  traveling  elsewhere  on  my  own  business, 
but  I  had  a  commission  from  a  Northern  literary  magazine 


286  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

to  stop  over  there  and  establish  a  personal  connection  be- 
tween the  publication  and  one  of  its  contributors,  Azalea 
Adair. 

Adair  (there  was  no  clue  to  the  personality  except  the 
handwriting)  had  sent  in  some  essays  (lost  art !)  and  poems 
that  had  made  the  editors  swear  approvingly  over  their 
one-o'clock  luncheon.  So  they  had  commissioned  me  to 
round  up  said  Adair  and  corner  by  contract  his  or  her  out- 
put at  two  cents  a  word  before  some  other  publisher  offered 
her  ten  or  twenty. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  after  my  chicken  livers 
en  brochette  (try  them  if  you  can  find  that  hotel),  I  strayed 
out  into  the  drizzle,  which  was  still  on  for  an  unlimited  run. 
At  the  first  corner  I  came  upon  Uncle  Caesar.  He  was  a 
stalwart  negro,  older  than  the  pyramids,  with  gray  wool 
and  a  face  that  reminded  me  of  Brutus,  and  a  second  after- 
wards of  the  late  King  Cetewayo.  He  wore  the  most 
remarkable  coat  that  I  ever  had  seen  or  expect  to  see.  It 
reached  to  his  ankles  and  had  once  been  a  Confederate  gray 
in  color.  But  rain  and  sun  and  age  had  so  variegated  it  that 
Joseph's  coat,  beside  it,  would  have  faded  to  a  pale  mono- 
chrome. I  must  linger  with  that  coat,  for  it  has  to  do  with 
the  story  —  the  story  that  is  so  long  in  coming,  because 
you  can  hardly  expect  anything  to  happen  in  Nashville. 

Once  it  must  have  been  the  military  coat  of  an  officer. 
The  cape  of  it  had  vanished,  but  all  adown  its  front  it  had 
been  frogged  and  tasseled  magnificently.  But  now  the 
frogs  and  tassels  were  gone.  In  their  stead  had  been 
patiently  stitched  (I  surmised  by  some  surviving  "black 
mammy")  new  frogs  made  of  cunningly  twisted  common 
hempen  twine.  This  twine  was  frayed  and  disheveled.  It 
must  have  been  added  to  the  coat  as  a  substitute  for  van- 
ished splendors,  with  tasteless  but  painstaking  devotion, 
for  it  followed  faithfully  the  curves  of  the  long-missing 
frogs.  And,  to  complete  the  comedy  and  pathos  of  the  gar- 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  287 

ment,  all  its  buttons  were  gone  save  one.  The  second  but- 
ton from  the  top  alone  remained.  The  coat  was  fastened  by 
other  twine  strings  tied  through  the  buttonholes  and  other 
holes  rudely  pierced  in  the  opposite  side.  There  was  never 
such  a  weird  garment  so  fantastically  bedecked  and  of  so 
many  mottled  hues.  The  lone  button  was  the  size  of  a  half- 
dollar,  made  of  yellow  horn  and  sewed  on  with  coarse  twine. 

This  negro  stood  by  a  carriage  so  old  that  Ham  himself 
might  have  started  a  hack-line  with  it  after  he  left  the  ark 
with  the  two  animals  hitched  to  it.  As  I  approached  he 
threw  open  the  door,  drew  out  a  feather  duster,  waved  it 
without  using  it,  and  said  in  deep,  rumbling  tones : 

"Step  right  in,  suh;  ain't  a  speck  of  dust  in  it  —  jus* 
got  back  from  a  funeral,  suh." 

I  inferred  that  on  such  gala  occasions  carriages  were 
given  an  extra  cleaning.  I  looked  up  and  down  the  street 
and  perceived  that  there  was  little  choice  among  the 
vehicles  for  hire  that  lined  the  curb.  I  looked  in  my  memo- 
randum book  for  the  address  of  Azalea  Adair. 

"I  want  to  go  to  861  Jessamine  Street,"  I  said,  and  was 
about  to  step  into  the  hack. 

But  for  an  instant  the  thick,  long,  gorilla-like  arm  of  the 
old  negro  barred  me.  On  his  massive  and  saturnine  face  a 
look  of  sudden  suspicion  and  enmity  flashed  for  a  moment. 
Then,  with  quickly  returning  conviction,  he  asked  bland- 
ishingly  :  "What  are  you  gwine  there  for,  boss  ? " 

"What  is  that  to  you  ?"  I  asked,  a  little  sharply. 

"Nothin',  suh,  jus*  nothin'.  Only  it's  a  lonesome  kind  of 
part  of  town  and  few  folks  ever  has  business  out  there. 
Step  right  in.  The  seats  is  clean  —  jes'  got  back  from  a 
funeral,  suh." 

A  mile  and  a  half  it  must  have  been  to  our  journey's  end. 
I  could  hear  nothing  but  the  fearful  rattle  of  the  ancient 
hack  over  the  uneven  brick  paving ;  I  could  smell  nothing 
but  the  drizzle,  now  further  flavored  with  coal  smoke  and 


288  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

something  like  a  mixture  of  tar  and  oleander  blossoms.  All 
I  could  see  through  the  streaming  windows  were  two  rows 
of  dim  houses. 

The  city  has  an  area  of  10  square  miles ;  181  miles  of  streets,  of 
which  137  miles  are  paved ;  a  system  of  waterworks  that  cost 
$2,000,000,  with  77  miles  of  mains. 

Eight-sixty-one  Jessamine  Street  was  a  decayed  man- 
sion. Thirty  yards  back  from  the  street  it  stood,  outmerged 
in  a  splendid  grove  of  trees  and  untrimmed  shrubbery.  A 
row  of  box  bushes  overflowed  and  almost  hid  the  paling 
fence  from  sight ;  the  gate  was  kept  closed  by  a  rope  noose 
that  encircled  the  gate-post  and  the  first  paling  of  the  gate. 
But  when  you  got  inside  you  saw  that  eight-sixty-one  was  a 
shell,  a  shadow,  a  ghost  of  former  grandeur  and  excellence. 
But  in  the  story,  I  have  not  yet  got  inside. 

When  the  hack  had  ceased  from  rattling  and  the  weary 
quadrupeds  came  to  a  rest,  I  handed  my  Jehu  his  fifty  cents 
with  an  additional  quarter,  feeling  a  glow  of  conscious  gen- 
erosity as  I  did  so.  He  refused  it. 

"It's  two  dollars,  suh,"  he  said. 

"  How's  that  ?  "  I  asked.  "  I  plainly  heard  you  call  out  at 
the  hotel :  'Fifty  cents  to  any  part  of  the  town.' " 

"It's  two  dollars,  suh,"  he  repeated  obstinately.  "It's  a 
long  ways  from  the  hotel." 

"It  is  within  the  city  limits  and  well  within  them,"  I 
argued.  "  Don't  think  that  you  have  picked  up  a  greenhorn 
Yankee.  Do  you  see  those  hills  over  there?"  I  went  on, 
pointing  toward  the  east  (I  could  not  see  them,  myself,  for 
the  drizzle) ;  "well,  I  was  born  and  raised  on  their  other 
side.  You  old  fool  nigger,  can't  you  tell  people  from  other 
people  when  you  see  'em  ?  " 

The  grim  face  of  King  Cetewayo  softened.  "Is  you  from 
the  South,  suh  ?  I  reckon  it  was  them  shoes  of  yourn  fooled 
me.  They  is  somethin'  sharp  in  the  toes  for  a  Southern 
genTman  to  wear." 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  289 

"Then  the  charge  is  fifty  cents,  I  suppose  ?"  said  I  inex- 
orably. 

His  former  expression,  a  mingling  of  cupidity  and  hos- 
tility, returned,  remained  ten  seconds,  and  vanished. 

"Boss,"  he  said,  "fifty  cents  is  right;  but  I  needs  two 
dollars,  suh;  I'm  obleeged  to  have  two  dollars.  I  ain't 
demandin'  it  now,  suh,  after  I  knows  whar  you's  from ;  I'm 
jus'  sayin'  that  I  has  to  have  two  dollars  to-night,  and  busi- 
ness is  mighty  po'." 

Peace  and  confidence  settled  upon  his  heavy  features. 
He  had  been  luckier  than  he  had  hoped.  Instead  of  having 
picked  up  a  greenhorn,  ignorant  of  rates,  he  had  come  upon 
an  inheritance. 

"You  confounded  old  rascal,"  I  said,  reaching  down  to 
my  pocket,  "you  ought  to  be  turned  over  to  the  police." 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  him  smile.  He  knew ;  he  knew; 

HE  KNEW. 

I  gave  him  two  one-dollar  bills.  As  I  handed  them  over  I 
noticed  that  one  of  them  had  seen  parlous  times.  Its  upper 
right-hand  corner  was  missing,  and  it  had  been  torn 
through  in  the  middle,  but  joined  again.  A  strip  of  blue 
tissue  paper,  pasted  over  the  split,  preserved  its  negotia- 
bility. 

Enough  of  the  African  bandit  for  the  present :  I  left  him 
happy,  lifted  the  rope,  and  opened  the  creaky  gate. 

The  house,  as  I  said,  was  a  shell.  A  paint-brush  had  not 
touched  it  in  twenty  years.  I  could  not  see  why  a  strong 
wind  should  not  have  bowled  it  over  like  a  house  of  cards 
until  I  looked  again  at  the  trees  that  hugged  it  close  —  the 
trees  that  saw  the  battle  of  Nashville  and  still  drew  their 
protecting  branches  around  it  against  storm  and  enemy 
and  cold. 

Azalea  Adair,  fifty  years  old,  white-haired,  a  descendant 
of  the  cavaliers,  as  thin  and  frail  as  the  house  she  lived  in, 
robed  in  the  cheapest  and  cleanest  dress  I  ever  saw,  with 
an  air  as  simple  as  a  queen's,  received  me.  ' 


$90  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

The  reception-room  seemed  a  mile  square,  because  there 
was  nothing  in  it  except  some  rows  of  books,  on  unpainted 
white-pine  bookshelves,  a  cracked  marble-top  table,  a  rag 
rug,  a  hairless  horsehair  sofa,  and  two  or  three  chairs. 
Yes,  there  was  a  picture  on  the  wall,  a  colored  crayon 
drawing  of  a  cluster  of  pansies.  I  looked  around  for  the 
portrait  of  Andrew  Jackson  and  the  pinecone  hanging 
basket,  but  they  were  not  there. 

Azalea  Adair  and  I  had  conversation,  a  little  of  which 
will  be  repeated  to  you.  She  was  a  product  of  the  old 
South,  gently  nurtured  in  the  sheltered  life.  Her  learn- 
ing was  not  broad,  but  was  deep  and  of  splendid  originality 
in  its  somewhat  narrow  scope.  She  had  been  educated  at 
home,  and  her  knowledge  of  the  world  was  derived  from 
inference  and  by  inspiration.  Of  such  is  the  precious,  small 
group  of  essayists  made.  While  she  talked  to  me  I  kept 
brushing  my  fingers,  trying,  unconsciously,  to  rid  them 
guiltily  of  the  absent  dust  from  the  half-calf  backs  of 
Lamb,  Chaucer,  Hazlitt,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Montaigne,  and 
Hood.  She  was  exquisite,  she  was  a  valuable  discovery. 
Nearly  everybody  nowadays  knows  too  much  —  oh,  so 
much  too  much  —  of  real  life. 

I  could  perceive  clearly  that  Azalea  Adair  was  very  poor. 
A  house  and  a  dress  she  had,  not  much  else,  I  fancied.  So, 
divided  between  my  duty  to  the  magazine  and  my  loyalty 
to  the  poets  and  essayists  who  fought  Thomas  in  the  valley 
of  the  Cumberland,  I  listened  to  her  voice,  which  was  like  a 
harpsichord's,  and  found  that  I  could  not  speak  of  con- 
tracts. In  the  presence  of  the  nine  Muses  and  the  three 
Graces  one  hesitated  to  lower  the  topic  to  two  cents. 
There  would  have  to  be  another  colloquy  after  I  had 
regained  my  commercialism.  But  I  spoke  of  my  mission, 
and  three  o'clock  of  the  next  afternoon  was  set  for  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  business  proposition. 

"Your  town,"  I  said,  as  I  began  to  make  ready  to  depart 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  291 

(which  is  the  time  for  smooth  generalities),  "seems  to  be  a 
quiet,  sedate  place.  A  home  town,  I  should  say,  where  few 
things  out  of  the  ordinary  ever  happen." 

It  carries  on  an  extensive  trade  in  stoves  and  hollow  ware  with 
the  West  and  South,  and  its  flouring  mills  have  a  daily  capacity  of 
more  than  two  thousand  barrels. 

Azalea  Adair  seemed  to  reflect. 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  it  that  way,"  she  said,  with  a 
kind  of  sincere  intensity  that  seemed  to  belong  to  her. 
"Isn't  it  in  the  still,  quiet  places  that  things  do  happen? 
I  fancy  that  when  God  began  to  create  the  earth  on  the 
first  Monday  morning  one  could  have  leaned  out  one's 
window  and  heard  the  drops  of  mud  splashing  from  His 
trowel  as  He  built  up  the  everlasting  hills.  What  did  the 
noisiest  project  in  the  world  —  I  mean  the  building  of  the 
tower  of  Babel  —  result  in  finally  ?  A  page  and  a  half  of 
Esperanto  in  the  North  American  Review." 

"Of  course,"  said  I  platitudinously,  "human  nature  is 
the  same  everywhere ;  but  there  is  more  color  —  er  —  more 
drama  and  movement  and  —  er  —  romance  in  some  cities 
than  in  others." 

"On  the  surface,"  said  Azalea  Adair.  "I  have  traveled 
many  times  around  the  world  in  a  golden  airship  wafted  on 
two  wings  —  print  and  dreams.  I  have  seen  (on  one  of  my 
imaginary  tours)  the  Sultan  of  Turkey  bowstring  with  his 
own  hands  one  of  his  wives  who  had  uncovered  her  face  in 
public.  I  have  seen  a  man  in  Nashville  tear  up  his  theater 
tickets  because  his  wife  was  going  out  with  her  face  cov- 
ered—  with  rice  powder.  In  San  Francisco's  Chinatown 
I  saw  the  slave  girl  Sing  Yee  dipped  slowly,  inch  by  inch, 
in  boiling  almond  oil  to  make  her  swear  she  would  never 
see  her  American  lover  again.  She  gave  in  when  the  boiling 
oil  had  reached  three  inches  above  her  knee.  At  a  euchre 
party  in  East  Nashville  the  other  night  I  saw  Kitty  Mor- 
gan cut  dead  by  seven  of  her  schoolmates  and  lifelong 


£92  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

friends  because  she  had  married  a  house  painter.  The  boil- 
ing oil  was  sizzling  as  high  as  her  heart ;  but  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  fine  little  smile  that  she  carried  from 
table  to  table.  Oh,  yes,  it  is  a  humdrum  town.  Just  a  few 
miles  of  red  brick  houses  and  mud  and  stores  and  lumber 
yards." 

Some  one  knocked  hollowly  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
Azalea  Adair  breathed  a  soft  apology  and  went  to  investi- 
gate the  sound.  She  came  back  in  three  minutes  with 
brightened  eyes,  a  faint  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  ten  years 
lifted  from  her  shoulders. 

"You  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  before  you  go,"  she  said, 
"and  a  sugar  cake." 

She  reached  and  shook  a  little  iron  bell.  In  shuffled  a 
small  negro  girl  about  twelve,  barefoot,  not  very  tidy, 
glowering  at  me  with  thumb  in  mouth  and  bulging 
eyes. 

Azalea  Adair  opened  a  tiny,  worn  purse  and  drew  out  a 
dollar  bill,  a  dollar  bill  with  the  upper  right-hand  corner 
missing,  torn  in  two  pieces  and  pasted  together  again  with 
a  strip  of  blue  tissue  paper.  It  was  one  of  the  bills  I  had 
given  the  piratical  negro  —  there  was  no  doubt  of  it. 

"Go  up  to  Mr.  Baker's  store  on  the  corner,  Impy,"  she 
said,  handing  the  girl  the  dollar  bill,  "and  get  a  quarter  of  a 
pound  of  tea  —  the  kind  he  always  sends  me  —  and  ten 
cents' worth  of  sugar  cakes.  Now,  hurry.  The  supply  of 
tea  in  the  house  happens  to  be  exhausted,"  she  explained 
to  me. 

Impy  left  by  the  back  way.  Before  the  scrape  of  her 
hard,  bare  feet  had  died  away  on  the  back  porch,  a  wild 
shriek  —  I  was  sure  it  was  hers  —  filled  the  hollow  house. 
Then  the  deep,  gruff  tones  of  an  angry  man's  voice  mingled 
with  the  girl's  further  squeals  and  unintelligible  words. 

Azalea  Adair  rose  without  surprise  or  emotion  and  dis- 
appeared. For  two  minutes  I  heard  the  hoarse  rumble  of 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  293 

the  man's  voice ;  then  something  like  an  oath  and  a  slight 
scuffle,  and  she  returned  calmly  to  her  chair. 

"This  is  a  roomy  house,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  a  tenant 
for  part  of  it.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  rescind  my  invitation 
to  tea.  It  was  impossible  to  get  the  kind  I  always  use  at  the 
store.  Perhaps  to-morrow  Mr.  Baker  will  be  able  to  supply 
me." 

I  was  sure  that  Impy  had  not  had  time  to  leave  the 
house.  I  inquired  concerning  street-car  lines  and  took  my 
leave.  After  I  was  well  on  my  way  I  remembered  that  I 
had  not  learned  Azalea  Adair's  name.  But  to-morrow 
would  do. 

That  same  day  I  started  in  on  the  course  of  iniquity 
that  this  uneventful  city  forced  upon  me.  I  was  in  the  town 
only  two  days,  but  in  that  time  I  managed  to  lie  shame- 
lessly by  telegraph,  and  to  be  an  accomplice  —  after  the 
fact,  if  that  is  the  correct  legal  term  —  to  a  murder. 

As  I  rounded  the  corner  nearest  my  hotel  the  Afrite 
coachman  of  the  polychromatic,  nonpareil  coat  seized  me, 
swung  open  the  dungeony  door  of  his  peripatetic  sarcoph- 
agus, flirted  his  feather  duster,  and  began  his  ritual : 
"Step  right  in,  boss.  Carriage  is  clean  —  jus*  got  back 
from  a  funeral.  Fifty  cents  to  any — " 

And  then  he  knew  me  and  grinned  broadly.  "  'Scuse  me, 
boss ;  you  is  de  genTman  what  rid  out  with  me  dis  mawn- 
in\  Thank  you  kindly,  suh." 

"I  am  going  out  to  eight-sixty-one  again  to-morrow 
afternoon  at  three,"  said  I,  "and  if  you  will  be  here,  I'll 
let  you  drive  me.  So  you  know  Miss  Adair  ?  "  I  concluded, 
thinking  of  my  dollar  bill. 

"I  belonged  to  her  father,  Judge  Adair,  suh,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"I  judge  that  she  is  pretty  poor,"  I  said.  "She  hasn't 
much  money  to  speak  of,  has  she?" 

For  an  instant  I  looked  again  at  the  fierce  countenance 


294  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

of  King  Cetewayo,  and  then  he  changed  back  to  an  extor- 
tionate old  negro  hack-driver. 

"She  ain't  gwine  to  starve,  suh,"  he  said  slowly.  "She 
has  reso'ces,  suh ;  she  has  reso'ces." 

"  I  shall  pay  you  fifty  cents  for  the  trip,"  said  I. 

"Dat  is  puffeckly  correct,  suh,"  he  answered  humbly. 
"I  jus*  had  to  have  dat  two  dollars  dis  mawnin',  boss." 

I  went  to  the  hotel  and  lied  by  electricity.  I  wired 
the  magazine:  "A.  Adair  holds  out  for  eight  cents  a 
word." 

The  answer  that  came  back  was :  "  Give  it  to  her  quick, 
you  duffer." 

Just  before  dinner  "Major"  Wentworth  Caswell  bore 
down  upon  me  with  the  greetings  of  a  long-lost  friend.  I 
have  seen  few  men  whom  I  have  so  instantaneously  hated, 
and  of  whom  it  was  so  difficult  to  be  rid.  I  was  standing  at 
the  bar  when  he  invaded  me ;  therefore  I  could  not  wave 
the  white  ribbon  in  his  face.  I  would  have  paid  gladly  for 
the  drinks,  hoping,  thereby,  to  escape  another ;  but  he  was 
one  of  those  despicable,  roaring,  advertising  bibbers  who 
must  have  brass  bands  and  fireworks  attend  upon  every 
cent  that  they  waste  in  their  follies. 

With  an  air  of  producing  millions  he  drew  two  one-dollar 
bills  from  a  pocket  and  dashed  one  of  them  upon  the  bar. 
I  looked  once  more  at  the  dollar  bill  with  the  upper  right- 
hand  corner  missing,  torn  through  the  middle,  and  patched 
with  a  strip  of  blue  tissue  paper.  It  was  my  dollar  bill  again. 
It  could  have  been  no  other. 

I  went  up  to  my  room.  The  drizzle  and  the  monotony  of 
a  dreary,  eventless  Southern  town  had  made  me  tired  and 
listless.  I  remember  that  just  before  I  went  to  bed  I  men- 
tally disposed  of  the  mysterious  dollar  bill  (which  might 
have  formed  the  clue  to  a  tremendously  fine  detective  story 
of  San  Francisco)  by  saying  to  myself  sleepily:  "Seems  as 
if  a  lot  of  people  here  own  stock  in  the  Hack-Drivers'  Trust. 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  295 

Pays  dividends  promptly,  too.  Wonder  if  — "  Then  I  fell 
asleep. 

King  Cetewayo  was  at  his  post  the  next  day,  and  rattled 
my  bones  over  the  stones  out  to  eight-sixty-one.  He  was 
to  wait  and  rattle  me  back  again  when  I  was  ready. 

Azalea  Adair  looked  paler  and  cleaner  and  frailer  than 
she  had  looked  on  the  day  before.  After  she  had  signed  the 
contract  at  eight  cents  per  word,  she  grew  still  paler  and 
began  to  slip  out  of  her  chair.  Without  much  trouble  I 
managed  to  get  her  up  on  the  antediluvian  horsehair  sofa 
and  then  I  ran  out  to  the  sidewalk  and  yelled  to  the  coffee- 
colored  pirate  to  bring  a  doctor.  With  a  wisdom  that  I  had 
not  suspected  in  him,  he  abandoned  his  team  and  struck 
off  up  the  street  afoot,  realizing  the  value  of  speed.  In  ten 
minutes  he  returned  with  a  grave,  gray-haired,  and  cap- 
able man  of  medicine.  In  a  few  words  (worth  much  less 
than  eight  cents  each)  I  explained  to  him  my  presence  in 
the  hollow  house  of  mystery.  He  bowed  with  stately  un- 
derstanding, and  turned  to  the  old  negro. 

"Uncle  Caesar,"  he  said  calmly,  "run  up  to  my  house 
and  ask  Miss  Lucy  to  give  you  a  cream  pitcher  full  of  fresh 
milk  and  half  a  tumbler  of  port  wine.  And  hurry  back. 
Don't  drive  —  run.  I  want  you  to  get  back  sometime  this 
week." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Dr.  Merriman  also  felt  a  distrust 
as  to  the  speeding  powers  of  the  land-pirate's  steeds.  After 
Uncle  Csesar  was  gone,  lumberingly,  but  swiftly,  up  the 
street,  the  doctor  looked  me  over  with  great  politeness  and 
as  much  careful  calculation  until  he  had  decided  that  I 
might  do. 

"It  is  only  a  case  of  insufficient  nutrition,"  he  said.  "In 
other  words,  the  result  of  poverty,  pride,  and  starvation. 
Mrs.  Caswell  has  many  devoted  friends  who  would  be  glad 
to  aid  her,  but  she  will  accept  nothing  except  from  that  old 
negro,  Uncle  Csesar,  who  was  once  owned  by  her  family." 


296  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

"Mrs.  Caswell !"  said  I,  in  surprise.  And  then  I  looked 
at  the  contract  and  saw  that  she  had  signed  it  "Azalea 
Adair  Caswell." 

"I  thought  she  was  Miss  Adair,"  I  said. 

"Married  to  a  drunken,  worthless  loafer,  sir,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  It  is  said  that  he  robs  her  even  of  the  small  sums 
that  her  old  servant  contributes  toward  her  support." 

When  the  milk  and  wine  had  been  brought,  the  doctor 
soon  revived  Azalea  Adair.  She  sat  up  and  talked  of  the 
beauty  of  the  autumn  leaves  that  were  then  in  season,  and 
their  height  of  color.  She  referred  lightly  to  her  fainting 
seizure  as  the  outcome  of  an  old  palpitation  of  the  heart. 
Impy  fanned  her  as  she  lay  on  the  sofa.  The  doctor  was 
due  elsewhere,  and  I  followed  him  to  the  door.  I  told  him 
that  it  was  within  my  power  and  intentions  to  make  a 
reasonable  advance  of  money  to  Azalea  Adair  on  future 
contributions  to  the  magazine,  and  he  seemed  pleased. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  would  like  to  know 
that  you  have  had  royalty  for  a  coachman.  Old  Caesar's 
grandfather  was  a  king  in  Congo.  Caesar  himself  has  royal 
ways,  as  you  may  have  observed." 

As  the  doctor  was  moving  off  I  heard  Uncle  Caesar's 
voice  inside :  "  Did  he  git  bof e  of  dem  two  dollars  from  you, 
Mis'  Zalea?" 

"Yes,  Caesar,"  I  heard  Azalea  Adair  answer  weakly. 

And  then  I  went  in  and  concluded  business  negotiations 
with  our  contributor.  I  assumed  the  responsibility  of 
advancing  fifty  dollars,  putting  it  as  a  necessary  formality 
in  binding  our  bargain.  And  then  Uncle  Caesar  drove  me 
back  to  the  hotel* 

Here  ends  all  of  the  story  as  far  as  I  can  testify  as  a  wit- 
ness. The  rest  must  be  only  bare  statements  of  facts. 

At  about  six  o'clock  I  went  out  for  a  stroll.  Uncle  Caesar 
was  at  his  corner.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  his  carriage, 
flourished  his  duster,  and  began  his  depressing  formula: 


A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT  297 

"Step  right  in,  suh.  Fifty  cents  to  anywhere  in  the  city  — 
hack's  puffickly  clean,  suh  —  jus'  got  back  from  a  fun- 
eral—" 

And  then  he  recognized  me.  I  think  his  eyesight  was 
getting  bad.  His  coat  had  taken  on  a  few  more  faded 
shades  of  color,  the  twine  strings  were  more  frayed  and 
ragged,  the  last  remaining  button  —  the  button  of  yellow 
horn  —  was  gone.  A  motley  descendant  of  kings  was  Uncle 
Caesar ! 

About  two  hours  later  I  saw  an  excited  crowd  besieg- 
ing the  front  of  a  drug-store.  In  a  desert  where  nothing 
happens  this  was  manna;  so  I  edged  my  way  inside.  On 
an  extemporized  couch  of  empty  boxes  and  chairs  was 
stretched  the  mortal  corporeality  of  Major  Wentworth 
Caswell.  A  doctor  was  testing  him  for  the  immortal  in- 
gredient. His  decision  was  that  it  was  conspicuous  by  its 
absence. 

The  erstwhile  Major  had  been  found  dead  on  a  dark 
street  and  brought  by  curious  and  ennuied  citizens  to  the 
drug-store.  The  late  human  being  had  been  engaged  in 
terrific  battle  —  the  details  showed  that.  Loafer  and 
reprobate  though  he  had  been,  he  had  been  also  a  warrior. 
But  he  had  lost.  His  hands  were  yet  clinched  so  tightly 
that  his  fingers  would  not  be  opened.  The  gentle  citizens 
who  had  known  him  stood  about  and  searched  then*  vocab- 
ularies to  find  some  good  words,  if  it  were  possible,  to 
speak  of  him.  One  kind-looking  man  said,  after  much 
thought:  "When  *Cas*  was  about  fo'teen  he  was  one  of 
the  best  spellers  in  school." 

While  I  stood  there  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  of  "the 
man  that  was,"  which  hung  down  the  side  of  a  white-pine 
box,  relaxed,  and  dropped  something  at  my  feet.  I  covered 
it  with  one  foot  quietly,  and  a  little  later  on  I  picked  it  up 
and  pocketed  it.  I  reasoned  that  in  his  last  struggle  his 
hand  must  have  seized  that  object  unwittingly  and  held  it 
in  a  death  grip. 


298  AMERICAN  COMMUNITIES 

At  the  hotel  that  night  the  main  topic  of  conversation, 
with  the  possible  exceptions  of  politics  and  prohibition,  was 
the  demise  of  Major  Caswell.  I  heard  one  man  say  to  a 
group  of  listeners : 

"In  my  opinion,  gentlemen,  Caswell  was  murdered  by 
some  of  these  no-account  niggers  for  his  money.  He  had 
fifty  dollars  this  afternoon  which  he  showed  to  several 
gentlemen  in  the  hotel.  When  he  was  found  the  money  was 
not  on  his  person." 

I  left  the  city  the  next  morning  at  nine,  and  as  the  train 
was  crossing  the  bridge  over  the  Cumberland  River  I  took 
out  of  my  pocket  a  yellow  horn  overcoat  button  the  size 
of  a  fifty-cent  piece,  with  frayed  ends  of  coarse  twine 
hanging  from  it,  and  cast  it  out  of  the  window  into  the  slow, 
muddy  waters  below. 

/  wonder  what's  doing  in  Buffalo! 


THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 


A  LOCAL  COLOEISfi 

BY  ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSON 

WHEN  I  was  a  mite  of  a  child  I  was  always  sayin'  that  I'd 
be  a  book-writer  when  I  growed  up.  I  rec'lect  lots  of  times 
folks  askin'  me  —  as  they're  always  doin*  with  young  ones, 
you  know  —  what  I  was  goin'  to  be  when  I  got  a  woman 
grown,  and  my  sayin'  every  time  I  should  be  a  great  author. 
Sometimes  I'd  make  it  more  particular  and  say  a  poet  or  a 
story-writer,  or  again  I'd  have  it  a  editor  or  some  kind  of 
newspaper-maker,  but  most  gen'rally  'twas  just  a  plain 
author,  no  particular  sort.  So,  feelin'  that  way  from  the 
very  beginnin',  'twas  queer  that  I  never  did  write  for  print 
as  the  years  went  by.  I  was  forever  thinkin'  about  it, 
plannin'  for  it,  surmisin'  just  how  'twould  feel  when  my 
own  makin's-up  was  printed  out  and  read  all  over  the  airth, 
and  I  never  for  one  single  minute  give  up  bein'  certain  sure 
that  before  I  died  —  and  long  afterwards,  too  —  I  should 
be  known  and  spoke  of  as  a  great,  a  dreadful  great,  author- 
ess. But  I  never  seemed  to  get  at  it.  You  see,  I  was  so  busy. 
I  never  had  to  work  for  my  livin',  but  I  was  oldest  of  five 
and  had  lots  to  do  helpin'  ma  with  the  little  ones  and  the 
housework. 

Then  there  was  school  and  lessons  till  I  was  nigh 
seventeen,  and  after  that  beaux,  and  pretty  soon  one  beau 
in  partic'lar  —  Mr.  Kidder,  you  know.  You  can't  write 
much  in  courtin'  days,  nor  in  marryin'-time  neither,  and 
'course  when  little  Nathan  come  and  then  Fanny  Ann  and 
Prudence,  my  hands  were  too  full  for  authorin*.  But  I  kep* 
on  lottin'  on  doin'  it  some  day,  knowin'  I  should  manage  it 
somehow. 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  A  Local  Colorist,  by  Annie  Trumbull 
Slosson.  Copyright,  1912,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


302  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

It  wa'n't  till  I  was  left  all  alone  by  myself  two  year  ago 
that  I  felt  I  could  really  begin.  I  set  the  day  quite  a  spell 
aforehand.  It  was  to  be  the  28th  of  May.  The  spring 
cleanin'  would  be  through  by  that  time,  and  the  preservin' 
and  cannin'  and  puttin'  up  jell  and  pickles  not  begun.  Only 
a  few  summer  boarders  generally  come  as  early  as  that,  so 
there  wouldn't  be  much  goin'  on  outside  to  watch  from  the 
windows  and  take  off  my  mind.  Altogether  it  seemed  just 
the  right  time.  Of  course  there  had  to  be  a  set  day  in  case 
my  writin's  turned  out  pop'lar  and  talked  about,  and  I  was 
pretty  certain  they  would.  Folks  always  want  to  know  all 
about  great  writers,  and  I  kep'  sayin'  over  to  myself  words 
from  the  newspaper  accounts : "  It  was  only  a  few  years  ago, 
on  the  28th  of  May,  that  this  interestin' "  -—  or  "  thrillinY' 
or  "beautiful,"  or  something,  as  the  case  might  be  —  "au- 
thoress begun  her  first  and  perchance  her  greatest  book." 

I  laid  in  my  writin'  things,  a  new  bottle  of  ink,  some 
pens,  and  a  quire  of  paper,  and  fixed  my  table  in  a  good 
light.  That  was  in  March,  for  I  was  always  forehanded.  I 
was  beginnin*  to  be  a  mite  impatient,  wantin'  to  have  the 
worst  over,  when  one  day  a  new  idee  come  into  my  head. 
Up  to  that  cold  March  mornin',  if  you'll  believe  it,  I  never 
once  thought  what  kind  of  writin'  I  should  begin  with; 
verses  or  prose  pieces,  narr'tives  or  what-all,  I  hadn't  de- 
cided on  any  of  'em.  It  didn't  take  very  long,  though.  I 
was  dreadful  fond  of  story-books,  and  I  never  cared  no 
great  for  poetry  or  lives  of  folks  or  travelin'  adventur's. 
I'd  write  stories,  just  one  first  off,  and  then  a  lot  of  'em  "  by 

the  authoress  of ."  My !  I  hadn't  fixed  on  a  name. 

But  that  could  come  later  when  I  knew  what  kind  of  a 
story  it  was.  Then  come  the  hardest  of  all  —  what  it 
should  be  about.  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  about  that. 
I  won't  go  over  all  the  different  plans  I  had :  to  write  about 
lords  and  earls,  or  lay  it  in  heathen  lands,  or  in  Mayflower 
days  among  the  Pilgrims,  or  in  the  Civil  Waij  or  among 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  '303 

pirates  and  Captain  Kidd,  or  early  Christian  martyrs.  I 
went  over  all  them  and  lots  more,  but  wasn't  a  bit  nearer 
decidin',  when  Mary  Dowd  passed  through  here  on  her  way 
to  Hall.  She'd  writ  me  aforehand,  and  I  went  over  to  the 
depot  to  see  her.  There  was  only  about  half  an  hour  be- 
tween trains,  and  we  had  a  great  deal  to  say.  She  is  real 
smart,  you  know  —  had  the  Dayville  School  three  terms, 
and  is  a  great  book-reader,  so  I  wanted  her  advice.  But 
she  was  all  for  my  tellin'  her  first  how  my  rhubarb  pies  was 
made ;  then  she  branched  off  into  pie  crust  generally,  and 
how  hers  never  had  that  light  shortness  mine  always  had, 
and  it  was  only  a  few  minutes  before  train-time  that  I  got 
a  chance  to  put  my  case.  She  was  real  interested,  and  she 
says  right  off  quick,  without  havin'  to  think  it  over,  "Oh," 
she  says,  "write  a  dialect  story ;  that's  the  only  thing  that 
takes  these  days."  "What  in  creation's  that  ? "  I  says,  and 
she  looked  'most  sorry  for  me.  But  she's  real  kind-hearted, 
and  she  begun  to  explain.  Before  I  could  get  much  idee  of 
the  thing  the  train  whistled  and  she  started  to  pick  up  her 
bag.  Near  as  I  could  understand,  dialect  —  I  didn't  know 
just  how  to  spell  it  or  speak  it  then,  but  I  got  it  right  after- 
ward —  dialect  was  any  kind  of  queer,  outlandish  talk 
folks  in  any  deestrict  use,  the  queerer  the  better.  The  more 
you  put  in  your  story  and  the  worse  'twas  spelt  and  the 
harder  to  understand,  why,  as  I  gathered  from  what  she 
said  as  she  climbed  up  the  steps  —  bag  in  one  hand  and 
umbrella  in  the  other  and  a  book  under  each  arm,  so't  she 
couldn't  help  steppin'  on  her  skirt  in  front  every  step  — 
why,  the  better  your  story  was  and  the  bigger  pay  it 
fetched.  "  But  where'll  I  get  this  derelict  talk  ?  "  I  says,  not 
gettin'  the  right  word  first  off,  and  knowin'  the  other  from 
Captain  Gates,  who'd  followed  the  sea.  "Go  'round  till 
you  find  it,"  she  says,  as  she  went  into  the  car,  and  tripped 
on  the  sill  so's  she  'most  fell  over,  "and  then  write  it  out." 
"How '11 1  know  how  to  spell  it  ?"  I  calls  out  as  she  settles 


304  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

into  her  seat  and  begins  to  fix  her  things.  "  You  don't  have 
to  know,"  says  she  through  the  window ;  "don't  make  any 
difference  how  it's  spelt ;  that's  why  it's  so  easy."  Just  as 
the  train  started  she  put  her  face  down  to  the  open  part  of 
the  window  —  it  was  only  up  a  little  way  and  was  wedged 
there  as  they  always  be  in  cars  —  and  called  out,  "And  be 
sure  you  put  in  lots  of  local  color."  "What  color?"  I  hol- 
lered out  as  loud  as  I  could.  I  see  her  mouth  open,  but  I 
couldn't  for  the  life  of  me  catch  a  word,  and  in  a  jiffy  she 
was  out  of  sight.  Well,  I  wrote  to  her  for  more  partic'lars, 
and  she  sent  me  a  whole  sheetful  of  explainin's.  She  said 
dialect  was  'most  everywheres,  but  different  in  different 
places.  I'd  find  it  nigh  me  or  further  away.  But  when  I'd 
got  it  I  mustn't  only  take  it  down  lit'ral,  but  I  must  put  hi 
the  color  she'd  spoke  of,  which  meant  the  sort  of  folks  that 
talked  the  dialect,  how  they  looked  and  acted,  and  all 
about  the  place  and  the  scenery,  and  partic'lar  the  weather. 
There  must  be  dark,  lowerin'  clouds,  or  an  azure  sky,  or 
wailin'  winds,  or  lurid  sunsets,  or  something  similar.  That 
was  all  called  local  color,  she  said,  and  it  was  a  most  im- 
portant—  in  fact,  a  necessary  ingredjent.  "Like  lard  in 
pie  crust,"  I  says  to  myself,  for  that  word  ingredjent 
sounded  like  receipt-book  talk,  and  the  last  part  of  her 
letter  was  about  my  rhubarb  pies  again. 

Well,  'course  I  had  to  begin  now,  first  thing,  to  hunt  up 
folks  that  talked  dialects,  and  it  wasn't  any  easy  job  I  tell 
you.  Mary'd  said  it  might  be  found  right  'round  you  or 
further  away.  'Twas  certain  sure  it  couldn't  be  'round  me, 
for  I  lived  then,  just  as  I  do  now,  here  in  the  mountains, 
though  it  was  in  Francony  those  days  instead  of  here  in 
Lisbon,  and  there  wasn't  a  thing  of  the  kind  in  the  whole 
place.  I  knew  every  single  soul  for  miles  'round,  and  they 
all  talked  good,  plain,  sensible  talk  like  everybody  else, 
nothin'  queer  or  what  you  might  call  dialectic.  But  I  was 
set  on  bein'  fair  and  correct,  and  not  leavin'  any  stone 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  305 

unturned,  as  the  sayin'  is,  without  turnin'  it  up.  So  I  went 
over  in  my  mind  all  the  folks  there  and  what  languages 
they  used.  I  didn't  seem  to  find  anything  singular,  but 
thinks  I,  I'll  go  'round  amongst  the  people  a  little  and  talk 
with  'em  and  take  partic'lar  notice  of  what  they  say.  It 
didn't  come  to  anything.  Even  the  old  aged  folks  that 
might  have  fetched  down  from  past  generations  some 
strange  lingo  or  other,  they  talked  the  right  kind  of  talk  we 
all  of  us  use.  I  didn't  tell  'em  what  I  was  at,  but  sort  of 
drawed  'em  out  on  different  subjects  and  watched  sharp 
for  any  dialects.  But  not  a  sign  of  'em  turned  up.  Even 
Gran'sir  Peckham,  more'n  eighty  year  old,  didn't  show  a 
mite  of  it.  I  talked  about  the  weather  with  him  as  he 
stood  at  the  gate  one  time ;  asked  him  if  he  thought  'twould 
be  a  nice  day,  and  so  on.  He  said  just  what  anybody  any- 
wheres that  had  took  notice  of  the  clouds  would  say,  that 
it  was  goin'  to  be  catchin'  weather  like  the  day  afore,  when 
he  got  soppin'  wet  over  to  the  medder  lot,  and  he  cal'lated 
'twould  keep  on  thataway  till  the  moon  fulled.  "Tany 
rate,"  he  says,  "it's  growthy  weather  for  grass."  Nobody 
could  have  talked  sensibler  nor  more  like  other  folks  nor 
with  scurser  dialect.  And  Aunt  Drusilly  Bowles,  born 
and  raised  right  there  on  the  Butter  Hill  road,  she  was  just 
the  same.  A  mite  of  a  body  she  is,  you  know,  lookin'  as  if 
you  could  blow  her  over  with  one  breath,  but  tough  and 
rugged.  She  was  carryin'  two  pails  of  water,  one  in  each 
hand,  as  I  went  by,  and  I  called  out  to  her,  "Ain't  they 
heavy  ?  "  I  says.  "Not  a  mite  —  that  is,  for  me,"  says  she. 
"I  could  heft  twice  as  much."  She  come  out  to  the  road, 
still  a-carryin'  the  pails,  and  went  on  talkin'.  "  I  don't  see," 
says  she,  "but  I'm  jest  as  spry  and  up-and-doin'  as  I  was 
twenty  year  back.  The  Priests,  our  branch  —  mother's 
side,  ye  know  —  they're  a  long-lived  tribe  and  peart  and 
chirky  to  the  last.  Ma  herself  was  dreadful  poor,  never 
weighed  ninety  pound  in  all  her  born  days,  but  she  was 


306  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

powerful  strong,  all  bone  and  sinner  to  the  last.  There 
wa'n't  never  a  peakid  or  pindlin'  Priest  I  ever  heerd  tell 
on,"  she  says,  straightenin'  up,  sort  o'  proud  like.  And  it 
was  all  like  that,  plain,  nat'ral  language  like  anybody's, 
not  a  sign  of  dialection,  as  you  might  call  it.  So  I  traipsed 
'round  that  town  till  my  feet  ached  lookin'  for  what  I 
knowed  aforehand  wasn't  there.  I  wouldn't  go  anywheres 
else  till  I'd  tried  every  chance  to  home. 

When  I  was  sure  there  wasn't  a  speck  o*  real  dialect  in 
Francony  nor  for  miles  'round  there,  I  took  the  cars  for 
Haverhill,  where  my  niece's  son,  Eben  Reynolds,  lived. 
Ridin'  in  the  stage  over  to  Bethlehem  for  the  mornin*  train, 
I  couldn't  get  this  thing  out  o'  my  head.  You're  something 
of  a  writer  yourself,  ma'am,  and  must  know  how  it  kind  o' 
spiles  things  havin'  to  think  how  they'd  look  in  print.  I 
know  I  heerd  Leonard  Colby  say  once  —  he  used  to  write 
pieces  for  the  paper,  you  know  —  that  he  couldn't  even 
say  good-night  to  his  girl  when  he  was  keepin'  company 
with  Ellen  Peabody  without  thinkin'  to  himself  how 
'twould  be  called  in  print  "a  yearnin'  embrace"  or  some- 
thing ;  said  it  took  part  of  the  int'rest  out  of  it.  So  'twas 
with  me  that  time.  'Twas  a  real  nice  mornin',  a  spring 
feelin'  in  the  air,  the  trees  not  exactly  budded  out,  but 
showin'  they  were  goin'  to  be  pretty  soon,  a  kind  of  live 
purplish  gray  all  over  'em,  and  the  sky  a  pictur'.  But  I 
couldn't  just  set  still  and  let  it  all  soak  into  me  without 
act'ally  thinkin'  about  it,  as  I  used  to,  no  more'n  these  new 
folks  that  call  theirselves  natur'-lovers  can  really  love 
natur'.  They're  after  book  names  for  what  they  see,  ex- 
amples of  amazin*  smartness  in  birds  or  creatur's  like  what 
Professor  Thingamy  or  Doctor  Thisorthat  writ  about.  And 
I  was  huntin'  for  the  dialect  way  of  tellin'  what  I  see  that 
day.  I  looked  up  to  the  sky,  such  a  pretty  blue,  and  the 
little  soft  white  woolly  clouds  strimmered  all  over  it,  and  I 
wondered  if  there  was  any  dialectic  word  that  answered  to 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  307 

"strimmer."  Seems 's  if  there  couldn't  be  one  that  pictured 
out  the  real  thing  so  good.  For  them  clouds  was  strim- 
mered  and  nothin'  else.  I  thought  as  I  see  the  apple-trees 
with  their  spranglin',  crooked,  knotty  branches  showin' 
already  signs  of  the  spring  life,  thinks  I,  "They'll  be  pink 
with  blowth  afore  we  know  it."  And  then  'stead  of  just 
being  comfortable  and  pleased  over  that  idee  I  went  and 
begun  guessin'  if  there  was  any  other  word  in  any  part  of 
the  world  that  stood  for  "blowth."  Certain  sure  there 
couldn't  be  a  word  that  described  things  so  plain.  Why, 
you  can't  only  see  the  posies  as  you're  sayin'  it,  but  you 
can  act 'ally  smell  'em.  "Oh,  how  glad  I  be,"  I  says  to 
myself,  "that  I  don't  have  to  talk  dialect  or  any  other  out- 
landish languages  started,  I  dare  say,  in  Babel  times  when 
folks  got  so  mixed  up  and  confused."  'Course  I'm  always 
kind  to  foreigners  and  make  allowances  for  'em.  Look  at  it 
one  way,  it  ain't  their  fault  their  talkin'  that  way.  But  I 
feel  to  rejoice,  as  they  say  in  prayer-meetin',  that  I  wasn't 
born  or  raised  one.  Sometimes  seems 's  if,  even  if  I  had 
been,  I'd  have  broke  away  when  I  growed  up  and  sensed 
things.  I  can't  pictur'  anybody  with  a  drop  of  Spooner 
blood  in  'em  talkin'  such  lingo  as  Dutch  Peter  over  to 
Lisbon  or  Mary  Bodoe  on  Wallace  Hill  keep  jabberin'  all 
the  time.  However  and  wherewithal,  as  Deacon  Lamb 
used  to  say  in  meetin's,  thankful  as  I  might  be  that  I 
talked  good  New  Hampshire,  I  was  bound  to  find  the  other 
kind  afore  May  28th,  when  my  book  was  to  begin. 

But  I  hadn't  any  more  luck  Haverhill  way  than  'round 
home.  It  made  me  feel  real  mean,  too,  visitin'  as  I  was  and 
folks  showin'  me  so  much  attention,  and  me  spyin'  on  'em, 
as  you  might  say,  and  prickin'  up  my  ears  in  hopes  of 
hearin'  some  queer  dialecty  talk  to  use  in  my  writin's. 
Served  me  right  that  I  didn't  hear  a  speck.  Eben's  folks 
come  from  our  way,  and  o'  course  they  talked  good  Fran- 
cony-American,  and  their  neighbors  done  the  same.  When 


808  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

I  went  over  the  river  to  Bradford  I  was  in  Vermont,  you 
know.  I  thought  mebbe  they'd  speak  different  over  there, 
but  they  didn't.  They  conversed  jest  our  way,  only  more 
so,  if  anything.  For  some  of  the  old  folks  kep'  up  words  I 
had  'most  forgot,  but  good,  sensible,  straight-meanin' 
words,  with  nothin'  outlandish  or  dialectical  about  'em. 
Grandma  Quimby,  raised  in  Whitefield,  but  marryin'  a 
Bradford  man  and  livin'  there  thirty  year,  she  says  when 
I  asked  her  how  her  little  granddaughter  Dorry  was, 
"Little?"  says  she.  "Why,  you'd  ought  to  see  her;  she's 
a  great  big  gormin'  girl  now."  That  "gormin"'  did  bring 
back  old  times  and  pa.  He  always  applied  that  term  to  me 
when  I  was  growin'  up,  and  it's  a  scrumtious  word.  I  do 
lot  on  words  that  pictur'  things  out  like  that.  And  her 
daughter,  Aunt  Meeny  Tucker,  she  puts  in :  "  And  Cyrus  's 
gettin'  a  big  boy  too.  It's  all  his  pa  can  do  to  manage  him. 
He's  got  the  Dodge  grit,  and  he's  real  masterful,  runs  all 
over  the  town  without  leave,  the  kitin'est  boy."  Exactly 
what  ma  used  to  say  about  Dan'l.  Oh,  I  do  so  set  by  the 
good,  plain,  meanin*  talk !  By  this  time  I  see  I  must  go 
further  away  if  I  expected  to  get  hold  of  anything  to  use 
in  my  writin's,  and  I  decided  to  go  to  Nashaway  to  Jane 
Webster's,  and  if  I  didn't  get  it  there  to  keep  on  as  fur  as 
Brown's  Corners,  'cross  the  Massachusetts  line.  "If  I 
don't  find  it  there,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  I'll  give  up.  I  can't 
go  to  Injy's  coral  strands,  not  even  to  find  ingredjents  for 
my  book-writin'." 

'Twas  the  same  story  at  Nashaway,  no  dialects  at  all,  not 
the  least  taste,  though  I  visited  'round,  in  all  classes,  as 
they  say.  Then  I  went  to  Massachusetts.  But,  dear  land ! 
Brown's  Corners  wasn't  a  mite  different  from  Francony  or 
Lisbon,  Haverhill  or  Bradford.  Common  talk  full  o'  com- 
mon sense,  both  of  'em  common  to  all  New  England,  f'r 
aught  I  know.  I  didn't  know  anybody  at  the  Corners  but 
Mis'  Harris  Spooner,  own  cousin  to  Mr.  Kidder's  first 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  309 

wife,  and  I  put  up  with  her.  She'd  always  lived  in  Massa- 
chusetts, bom  there,  and  I  sort  of  hoped  I  could  pick  up 
something  singular  in  her  conversation  worth  puttin'  into 
my  story.  But  'twas  no  good ;  seems  even  there  so  nigh  to 
Boston  their  languages  is  same  as  ourn.  She  didn't  talk  of 
anything  scursely  but  about  Viletty  —  Mr.  Kidder's  first, 
you  know,  my  predecessor,  's  they  say  —  and  how  pious 
and  sickly  she  was.  Told  me  all  about  her  last  days,  how 
white  and  meechin'  she  looked,  and  how  dreadful  poor  and 
skinny,  and  yet  how  she  hung  on,  hung  on  till  seemed  's  if 
she  never  'd  pass  away.  And  she  dwelt  on  Mr.  Kidder's 
sorrer  and  how  he  kind  o'  clung  to  Viletty  's  if  he  couldn't 
part  with  her,  and  how  mebbe  that  was  the  reason  she  hung 
on,  hung  on  so  long.  She  said  some  folks  think  if  you  hold 
on  too  tight  to  them  you  set  by  when  they  're  sick  and  ready 
to  go,  they  can't  break  loose,  somethin'  seems  to  draw  'em 
back  and  pin  'em  down.  And  she  told  how  she  says  to  him 
frequent,  "Reuben,  Reuben,"  says  she,  "let  her  go  home, 
loose  your  hold  and  let  her  depart."  Well,  seems  he  did. 
'Tany  rate  she  did  depart,  or  else  o*  course  I  wouldn't  have 
been  Mis'  Reuben  Kidder  now.  'Twas  real  interestin*  and 
nigh  about  all  news  to  me,  for  Mr.  Kidder  wasn't  no  great 
of  a  talker.  Anyway,  men-folks  never  seem  to  talk  about 
things  as  well  as  women,  do  they?  Leave  out  the  little 
trimmin's  that  set  it  off  so  and  stick  to  main  facts,  the  last 
thing  we  care  about.  He'd  never  once  mentioned  all  the 
time  we  lived  together  how  Viletty  had  hung  on,  hung  on, 
and  it's  bein'  thought  likely  'twas  because  of  his  tight  hold 
on  her.  You'd  think  he'd  a-known  it  would  be  entertainin' 
to  me,  takin'  Viletty's  place  as  I  had.  The  whole  narr'tive 
was  spoke  in  as  good  plain  talk  as  any  I  could  have  put  it 
in  myself,  down  to  the  very  end,  Viletty's  dyin'  words,  the 
layin'  out,  the  wreaths  and  crowns  and  pillers  from  the 
neighbors,  and  the  funeral  exercises.  She  said  she'd  take 
me  out  to  the  buryin'-ground  afore  I  left,  a  dreadful  sightly 


310  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

place  on  Dodd's  Hill,  to  see  the  grave.  I'd  have  admired 
to  go,  but  it  rained  the  whole  endurin*  time,  and  I  didn't 
get  a  chance. 

Well,  here  'twas  the  24th  of  May,  and  no  dialections  to 
put  into  that  story  that  was  to  be  started  on  the  28th.  I 
was  dreadful  upset  and  put  out.  Seemed  certain  sure  that 
I  couldn't  do  the  kind  of  book  that  was  most  in  the  fashion 
that  time,  and  so  must  set  to  work  at  something  different. 
As  for  the  local  color,  if  that  only  meant  sceneries  and 
weather  and  actin's  and  doin's,  why,  I  could  fix  them  all 
right,  but,  as  I  understood  Mary  Dowd  to  say,  that  wasn't 
no  use  without  a  lot  o'  this  dialect,  and  that  I  couldn't  find 
high  nor  low.  Up  to  that  time  I  hadn't  told  a  single  creatur* 
what  I  was  at.  But  that  day,  as  I  was  goin'  along  in  the 
train,  who  should  get  in  at  Greenfield  station  but  Abby 
Matthews  on  her  way  home  from  visitin'  with  Ephraim's 
folks.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  her,  and  so  filled  up  with  all  I  'd 
been  through  and  wanted  to  go  through,  that  I  spilled  over 
and  emptied  out  my  whole  heart.  I  told  her  every  single 
thing,  how  I  'd  always  been  set  on  bein'  an  authoress  and 
what  Mary  Dowd  said  and  how  I  'd  traipsed  all  over  the 
airth  lookin'  for  dialects  and  couldn't  find  a  speck,  and  me 
only  four  days  from  the  date  I  'd  set  for  beginnin'  my  great, 
prob'ly  my  greatest,  work.  She  was  real  interested  and 
pleased  too,  said  'twould  be  a  great  thing  for  Francony  and 
for  Graf  ton  County  —  in  fact,  for  the  whole  State  o'  New 
Hampshire  —  to  have  an  authoress  of  their  own.  As  for 
this  dialect,  she  said  she'd  heerd  of  it  as  bein'  all  the  go 
nowadays  in  story-book  writin',  but  to  the  best  of  her 
rememberin'  she  hadn't  never  seen  a  case  of  it  herself.  It 
was  some  kind  of  queer-soundin'  talk  when  you  heerd  it, 
and  queerer-lookin'  when  you  read  it,  and  the  spellin'  was 
every  which  way,  no  reg'lar  rule.  As  for  her,  says  she,  she 
never  conceited  folks  did  talk  just  that  way  in  any  dees- 
trict  on  the  airth ;  she'd  always  held  that  the  story-writers 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  311 

made  it  up  as  they  went  along,  and  she'd  advise  me  to  do  so 
myself.  As  for  "local  color,"  she  never'd  heerd  of  such  a 
thing,  and  I'd  better  not  have  anything  to  do  with  it. 
"Tell  your  story  plain  and  straight,  and  put  everything 
down  in  black  and  white,  and  steer  clear  o'  any  other  colors, 
local  or  be-they-who-they-be,"  she  says.  "But  I  can't 
make  up  a  thing  I  don't  know  anything  about/'  says  I. 
"  If  I  only  could  see  a  sample  of  this  dialectical  talk  or  hear 
somebody  speak  a  mite  of  it,  I'd  see  where  I  was  standin', 
but  I  can't  make  a  start  afore  I  know  more  about  it ;  that's 
the  thing  of  it.  I'm  every  bit  as  sot  as  you  can  be,  Abby 
Matthews,  on  beginnin'  this  great  work.  All  is,  I  must  have 
a  mite  of  a  hint  or  a  help  to  start  me,  and  then  I  can  go  on 
like  a  house  afire."  She  see  the  sense  of  that,  and  just  then 
the  train  slowed  up  comin'  into  Bath,  where  she  was  goin* 
to  get  out,  and  in  a  minute  I  was  left  by  myself  again. 

"Well,  Abby  ain't  been  of  much  use  in  one  way,"  thinks 
I,  "but  she  gave  me  sympathy,  and  'twas  a  sight  of  com- 
fort to  talk  things  over  with  her.  And,  after  all,  I  guess 
sympathy's  worth  more'n  dialect  in  the  long  run,  and  some- 
times seems  's  if  'twas  nigh  about  as  scurse."  I  just  gave 
up  hope  that  night,  yet  'twas  only  next  day  that  I  found 
what  I  was  lookin'  for  —  dialect  and  plenty  of  it. 

I'm  afraid  you  won't  hardly  understand,  and  mebbe'll 
think  it  dreadful  when  I  tell  you  'twas  in  answer  to  prayer. 
I've  always  been  in  the  habit  of  askin'  the  Lord  for  what  I 
wanted,  even  if  I  wasn't  sure  'twas  a  right  thing  to  want. 
I  left  it  to  Him  to  decide  that  and  to  show  me  if  I  'd  made  a 
mistake.  He  give  the  gift  of  tongues  one  time,  you  know, 
and  He  promises  to  put  the  very  words  into  your  mouth 
that  you'd  ought  to  speak  in  tryin'  times,  so  why'd  this 
thing  be  so  dreadful  different  ?  Anyway,  I  tried  it,  and  I 
told  Him  the  whole  story  that  night.  And  I  says  if  there 
wasn't  any  harm  in  my  bein'  an  authoress  —  and  lots  of 
real  Christians  followed  that  business,  as  He  well  knew  — 


812  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

and  if  I  couldn't  be  a  real  fav'rite  without  puttin'  in  this 
thing,  would  He  p'int  out  to  me  where  to  find  it  and  how 
I'd  ought  to  make  use  of  it  and,  if  'twas  possible,  to  do  good 
with  it.  I  got  up  real  comforted  and  went  to  bed  easier  in 
my  mind  than  I  had  for  a  long  spell.  I  was  'round  the 
house  next  forenoon  doin'  the  work,  and  I  stepped  to  the 
window  to  shake  out  my  dust-cloth.  I  see  some  one  goin* 
along  the  road ;  a  stranger  I  knew  'twas  right  off.  'Twas  a 
young  lady,  real  nice-lookin',  and  I  guessed  she  must  be 
an  early  summer  boarder.  I  didn't  want  to  be  seen  starin' 
at  her,  and  was  just  goin'  to  step  back  out  o'  sight,  when 
she  looked  up  and  smiled  in  a  real  pretty,  friendly  way. 
'Course  I  smiled  back,  and  she  come  closer  and  says  "  Good- 
morning."  I  slat  the  dust-cloth  down  and  come  'round  to 
the  front  door,  and  in  five  minutes  we  was  talkin'  away  like 
old  cronies.  Seems  she  was  stayin'  over  to  Mis'  Nichols's 
—  I'd  heerd  they  was  expectin'  a  boarder  —  only  come 
night  before,  and  she  was  lookin'  'round  the  place.  Well, 
I  hadn't  heerd  her  say  a  dozen  words  'fore  I  see  she  talked 
different  from  the  folks  'round  there,  different  from  any- 
body I'd  heerd  anywheres.  Now  I  can't  show  you  just 
how  'twas  different.  I  never  could  act  out  things  and  show 
how  folks  did  'em,  copy  in'  their  talk  and  ways.  I  always 
broke  down  and  sp'iled  the  dialogues  at  school  exhibition 
if  they  give  me  a  part.  But  I  can  tell  you  some  of  the 
things  that  made  this  talk  so  dreadful  queer  and  give  me, 
right  at  the  very  beginnin',  what  they  call  in  prayer-meetin* 
a  tremblin'  hope  that  I  was  findin'  what  I'd  looked  for  so 
long. 

First  place,  everything  she  said  sounded  like  readin'  out 
of  a  book.  Now  you  know  'most  everybody  has  two  kinds 
of  talk,  one  for  speakin'  and  the  other  for  writin'  and 
readin'.  Talk-talk  and  book-talk,  as  you  might  put  it. 
But  my !  you  couldn't  see  any  difference  here ;  any  of  it 
might  have  been  read  off  from  a  book  or  a  paper.  And  then 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  313 

such  queer,  long,  stretched-out  words,  some  of  'em  span 
new  to  me  and  some  I'd  seen  in  books  or  heerd  in  sermons 
or  lectur's.  She  had  a  way  of  stoppin'  short  'twixt  her 
words  that  I  couldn't  make  out  or  get  used  to,  like  this : 
When  she  wanted  to  say  she  didn't  like  winter  's  well  as 
summer  she  said  she  "did  not  like  it  at,"  then  a  kind  of  stop 
before  she  put  in  "all."  First  off  I  thought  it  was  an  acci- 
dent and  she'd  stopped  to  swaller  or  get  her  breath  or 
something.  But  she  done  it  again  and  kep'  doin'  it,  and  I 
see  'twas  a  habit  —  part  of  her  dialects.  "At  —  all"  says 
she  every  single  time  'stead  of  "atall,"  as  everybody  else 
says.  Then  the  most  musical  thing  —  I  almost  laughed 
every  time  she  said  it  —  when  she  asked  me  if  I'd  ever 
been  somewheres  or  done  something  partic'lar  she'd  say 
"  Did  —  you  "  this  or  that,  with  a  stop  between  the  words 
long  enough  for  a  swaller,  or  a  stutter,  or  a  gap,  or  a  hic- 
cup. "  Did  —  you,"  she'd  always  say,  'stead  of  "  didjer," 
as  other  folks  say.  And  when  she  wanted  to  put  in  "ever" 
she'd  stop  the  same  way  'twixt  you  and  ever.  '*  Did-you- 
ever"  she  says,  'stead  of  the  right  way,  "Didjever,"  like 
other  folks.  She  was  int'rested  in  all  I  said  and  real  friendly, 
wanted  to  keep  me  talkin',  and  hoped  she  wasn't  incon- 
veniencin'  me,  and  so  on.  And  when  I  said  I  wasn't  par- 
tic'lar busy,  only  just  potterin'  'round,  she  says,  "Pot- 
term'!  Such  a  delightful  term!"  she  says;  "it  reminds 
me  of  Keerammix"  —  whoever  he  was  —  "and  the  plastic 
art.  Potterin' !"  she  says  over  again,  laughin',  as  if  'twas 
some  uncommon,  foreignish  word  or  other.  Where  did  she 
come  from?  Why,  that  word's  used  all  over  the  airth, 
f ar's  I  "know.  I  did  hear  a  woman  one  time  from  down  Con- 
necticut way  say  putterin'  'stead  of  potterin',  but  I  guess 
that  was  only  her  way  of  pronouncin'  it.  When  I  says  of 
Joel  Butts,  settin'  on  his  doorstep  'cross  the  street,  that  he 
was  "shif'less  as  a  cow  blackbird,"  she  claspt  her  hands 
and  says,  "Delicious!  and  shows  such  a  fa-mil-i-ar-i-ty  with 


814  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

nature  and  a  certain  knowledge  of  orni  —  something."  (I 
writ  that  down  as  quick  as  she  went  away.)  'Course  I 
didn't  let  her  see  I  was  usin'  her  for  a  copy;  she  didn't  sus- 
picion it.  She  ast  lots  of  questions  and  listened  sharp  to 
what  I  said.  But  I  guess  she  see  pretty  quick  there  wa'n't 
nothin'  queer  about  my  languages.  The  commonest  things, 
the  talk  used  by  all  sensible  folks  the  world  over,  seemed  to 
strike  her  most  and  stir  her  all  up.  Times  I  thought  she 
wasn't  exactly  polite,  what  we'd  call,  for  she'd  repeat  over 
something  I'd  said  and  laugh,  but  as  she  always  ended  by 
praisin'  it  up  I  didn't  mind.  And  I  was  so  tickled  at  findin' 
a  case  of  genuin'  dialects.  There  was  a  chiny  posy-holder 
in  my  window  with  some  dried  grass  in  it  from  last  year, 
just  a  common  one,  had  belonged  to  ma.  She  didn't  seem 
to  know  what  'twas  'tall;  asked  if  it  was  an  "antic"  or  a 
"airloom";  and  again  she  spoke  of  it  as  a  "varze."  When  I 
told  her  over  again  and  louder,  conceitin'  she  might  be  a 
mite  hard  o'  hearin',  that  'twas  only  a  old  crock'ry  posy- 
holder,  she  hollered  out,  "Posy-holder  —  how  dear!"  And 
I  hadn't  said  a  word  about  the  price.  I  didn't  want  to  sell 
it,  anyway.  "Posy,"  says  she,  "the  quaint  old  word  of  the 
poets,  Old  English,"  she  says.  But  I  told  her  no,  'twas 
Chinee,  I  guessed,  fetched  over  by  ma's  brother,  Uncle 
Elam,  who  follered  the  sea. 

That  started  her  off  again,  and  she  says  it  after  me: 
"Follered  the  sea!  How  expressive  and  vivid,  suggestin* 
the  call  of  the  ocean  to  its  lovers,"  and  such  queer,  crazy- 
soundin'  talk.  I  had  to  write  it  down  quick,  makin'  an 
excuse  to  go  into  the  other  room.  Another  thing  queer  was 
her  'pologisin'  the  whole  'durin'  time  for  goodness  knows 
what  and  beggin'  me  to  forgive  her  for  somethin'  or  'nother. 
If  she  didn't  sense  what  I  said  and  wanted  to  hear  it  over 
again,  she'd  ask  me  to  excuse  her  dumbness  by  sayin'  "  Beg 
pardon."  Time  and  again  she  says  that  when  she  hadn't 
done  a  thing,  and  when  I  answered  polite  every  time, 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  315 

"Don't  mention  it,'*  I  see  she  was  still  expectin'  somethin' 
and  waitin'  for  me  to  say  over  again  what  I'd  said  afore. 
Then  I  see  'twas  dialect  for  "What  say  ?  "  and  I  put  it  down 
on  my  list.  She  had  lots  of  those  dialectics.  When  she  was 
surprised  at  anything  I'd  tell  her,  she'd  say,  kind  o'  drawl- 
in*  like,  "Fancy !"  the  fan  part  sort  o'  spread  out,  and  I 
found  that  meant  "Do  tell "  or  "You  don't  say."  And  over 
'n'  over  when  I  fetched  in  some  common  sayin',  a  weather 
sign  about  thunder  in  the  mornin',  farmers  take  warnin',  or 
how  turnin*  back  some  o'  your  clothes  you'd  put  on  wrong 
side  afore  was  bad  luck,  or  any  such  well-known  things, 
she'd  say  a  real  queer  word,  "Foclore,"  'most  's  if  she 
was  swearin',  as  Uncle  Ben  Knapp  used  to  say  "C'rin- 
thians!"  when  he  got  excited. 

One  time  I  fetched  her  out  a  glass  of  milk  and  some  hot 
gingerbread  I'd  just  baked,  and  I  fixed  her  in  the  rocker 
under  the  big  ellum.  She  was  real  tickled,  and  give  me  to 
understand  that  it  made  her  think  of  somebody  named  Al 
Fresscoe.  I  s'pose  he  most  gen'rally  et  outdoors.  She  al- 
ways had  some  queer  remark  to  make  about  everything. 
When  Si  Little's  ox  team  was  standin'  out  in  the  road  one 
day  she  went  out  and  looked  right  into  the  creatur's'  faces, 
and  she  says  over  some  lingo  about  Juno  and  oxides;  or 
mebbe  'twas  ox-hides.  And  when  I  was  tellin'  her  about 
Elbert  Hill  and  how  climbin'  he  was,  how  he'd  come  up  from 
a  poor  boy,  and  now  took  in  partner  with  Knight  Brothers 
and  aimin'  to  be  a  selectman  some  day,  she  was  real  struck 
and  says,  "Excelsior!"  I  think  'twas  that;  'twas  some 
kind  o'  stuffin'  material,  anyway.  Even  the  commonest 
things  like  sayin'  Jabez  Goss  was  the  well-to-doist  man  in 
Littleton,  which  everybody  knows  he  is,  she'd  appear  so 
struck  or  tickled  over.  I'd  wonder  every  minute  what  fur- 
off  ign'rant  country  she  come  from.  Once  I  was  tellin'  her 
about  Jesse  Baker  to  Sugar  Hill  and  how  he  could  make 
verses  on  anything  in  the  heavens  or  airth  or  the  waters 


816  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

under  the  airth,  Pr  aught  I  know.  I  said  nobody  ever  learnt 
him  how  to  do  it,  he  just  took  to  it  soon's  he  could  speak ; 
'twas  natur',  I  guessed.  And  she  says  some  of  her  queer  out- 
landish jabber  about  poets  bein'  nasty  and  not  fit.  She 
didn't  say  for  what.  Wonder  if  she'd  say  that  about  Watts 
and  the  rest  o'  the  hymn-makers.  'Course  this  I'm  tellin' 
you  didn't  all  take  place  in  that  first  meetin'.  It  wanted 
four  days  then  to  the  28th,  the  time  I  was  to  become  an 
authoress,  and  I  contrived  to  see  Miss  Mandeville  (I'd 
found  out  her  name)  lots.  I'd  run  out  in  the  front  yard 
whenever  I  see  her  comin'  by,  and  I'd  happen  into  the  store 
if  she  went  in.  She  was  more'n  willin'  to  talk  with  me,  and 
I  got  together  a  whole  mess  of  dialections  and  writ  'em 
down  careful,  though  I  didn't  worry  about  the  spellin',  as 
I'd  heerd  that  wasn't  no  great  matter.  She  come  into  my 
house  two  or  three  times  and  was  real  int'rested  in  my 
things  and  talked  dialect  about  'em  like  a  streak  all  the 
time.  She  looked  at  my  old  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf  that 
was  grandma's  and  asked  about  it.  It  had  stopped,  as  it 
had  a  way  of  doin'  frequent,  and  I  told  her  it  didn't  keep 
reg'lar  time  like  my  new  one  in  the  kitchen,  but  I  said  I 
liked  it  better  than  that  one  because  it  had  been  in  our 
family  so  long  and  I'd  seen  it  since  I  was  a  speck  of  a  young 
one,  and  she  says,  "That  goes  without  sayin',"  says  she. 
I  hadn't  an  idee  what  she  meant,  for  it  don't  go  at  all  most 
times  whether  you  say  anything  or  not. 

She  was  lookin'  over  my  photograph  album  and  she 
come  to  a  likeness  of  Timothy  Banks  that  used  to  keep 
store  to  Whitefield  and  moved  down  East.  She  turned  it 
over  to  look  on  the  back  for  his  name,  I  s'pose,  and  she 
says,  "Oh,  Parree ! "  'Twas  one  of  her  bywords,  I  guess,  for 
there  wa'n't  any  name  there,  only  the  man  that  took  the 
pictur*  down  in  Paris,  Maine,  where  the  Bankses  live.  Oh, 
she  had  some  outlandish  word  for  everything  under  the  sun. 
What  do  you  think  she  called  goin'  anywheres  to  stay  over 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  317 

Sabbath  day  ?  You'd  never  guess.  Wee  Kend !  Tears  to 
be  dialect  for  visitin'  from  Saturday  to  Monday  —  bakin'- 
day  to  wash-day,  you  know.  But  I  can't  tell  you  half; 
'twould  take  a  month  o'  Sundays. 

She  had  the  out-o'-the-wayest  words  for  everything. 
Speakin'  o'  Lyman  Waters  and  how  he'd  fell  away  from  his 
religion  and  now  didn't  even  believe  there  was  any  God  at 
all,  what  do  you  think  she  called  him  ?  An  "  agg  nostick ! " 
That  was  her  dialection  for  a  plain,  common  infidel  that 
says  in  his  heart  there  is  no  God.  The  Bible  just  calls  him  a 
fool,  you  know.  And  them  different  ways  folks  get  into  by 
spells,  catchin'  ways,  you  know,  that  runs  through  a 
deestrict,  she  spoke  of  as  "fads."  Asked  me  one  time  if 
I'd  took  up  this  new  fad  of  mas-ti-catin'  my  food  a  long 
time  as  recommended  by  Whitcher,  or  Belcher,  or  some  one 
or  other.  But  I  told  her  no,  I  just  chewed  my  victuals 
before  swallerin',  's  I  always  had. 

I  was  so  tickled  by  findin'  all  these  dialects  for  my  story 
that  I  'most  forgot  I  hadn't  got  a  mite  of  local  color  to 
spread  over  'em.  How  could  I  get  it,  not  knowin'  anything 
of  the  kind  of  local'ty  she  come  from,  her  folks,  and  her 
bringin'  up  ?  Mebbe,  thinks  I,  that  will  come  out  after  a 
spell,  and  I  can  put  it  on  last  thing,  like  the  third  coat  o* 
paint  Lias  Davis  is  puttin*  on  his  house  'cross  the  road 
there.  Sing'lar,  I  says  to  myself,  to  speak  o'  writin'  's  if 
'twas  different  colors.  Though,  come  to  think  of  it,  I've 
heerd  of  blue  laws  and  blue  books  and  yellow  newspapers, 
red  letters  and  black  lists.  But  I  never  knew  anything  till 
lately  of  this  local  colorin'  matter  to  stories,  and  I  haven't 
got  an  idee  how  to  put  it  on,  just  plain  and  thick  all  over, 
or  strimmered  about  and  different  in  spots.  'Course  I 
could  describe  Miss  Mandeville  and  all  her  colors  —  red- 
dish hair,  and  indiger  blue  eyes,  and  pale-complected,  and 
all.  I  could  put  in  the  weather,  too ;  there's  more  in  Fran- 
cony  than  most  deestricts,  and  it's  all  colors,  too,  probably 


318  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

local 's  well  as  the  rest,  though  I  hadn't  got  yet  a  real  clear 
idee  what  that  was.  But  that  way-off,  sing'lar  land  she 
come  from,  where  her  folks  lived,  and  everybody  talked 
dialect  talk,  why,  I  hadn't  no  more  idee  how  to  paint  it  out 
than  —  than  anything. 

Well,  come  May  28th,  I  waked  up  'fore  sunrise  full  o* 
my  story.  I  got  breakfast  out  o'  the  way  and  washed  up 
the  dishes  bright  and  early  and  done  the  housework  so 's 
to  be  all  ready  to  set  down  to  my  writin'.  My  list  o'  dialec- 
tions,  all  took  from  this  queer  boarder's  talk,  was  real 
lengthy  now,  plenty  to  begin  with,  anyway.  As  for  the 
colorin',  I  could  put  in  some  weather  and  scenery  —  Mary 
Dowd  said  that  was  part  of  it  —  and  touch  it  up  bime-by 
with  another  shade  or  so  as  I  got  some  more  information. 
I'm  sot  on  havin'  lots  of  that  color  'tany  rate,  thinks  I, 
so  if  it  runs  or  fades  there'll  be  enough  left  to  show.  I'd 
tried  my  pen  and  found  it  went  all  right,  and  took  a  clean 
sheet  o'  paper  to  begin,  when  all  of  a  sudden  I  rec'lected 
that  I  hadn't  said  my  prayers  that  tnornin'.  I  was  dread- 
ful ashamed.  But  it's  bein'  the  great  anniversary  I'd 
looked  ahead  to  so  long  and  me  so  excited  and  nerved  up 
and  all,  I'd  clean  forgot  my  duty  and  my  religion.  Land's 
sake,  how  small  I  felt !  Down  went  my  pen  and  I  shoved 
back  my  chair  and  went  up-chamber  's  quick  as  I  could  go. 

It's  well  I  done  it.  And  yet  it  fetched  me  the  biggest  dis- 
app'intment  of  my  whole  We  long  and  as  good  as  changed 
all  my  futur',  my  line  o'  business,  my  hopes,  my  every- 
thing. I  was  kneelin*  by  my  bed,  dreadful  ashamed  and 
just  beginnin'  to  tell  the  Lord  about  it,  when  —  before  you 
could  say  Jack  Robinson  —  a  queer  feelin'  come  all  over 
me,  and  I  was  seein'  things  in  a  terrible  different  light. 
What  had  I  been  doin'  these  last  few  days  ?  What  was  I 
lookin'  ahead  to  doin'  the  days  to  come?  I  'most  heerd 
them  questions  asked  out  loud  by  some  one,  and  I  hid  my 
face  in  the  patchwork  quilt  and  wished  it  could  cover  me 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST  319 

up  soul  and  body,  I  was  that  ashamed.  A  poor  young 
creatur',  a  stranger  within  our  gates,  had  come  to  my 
door,  come  friendly  and  well-meanin'.  And  how  had  I 
acted  to  her?  I  had  drawed  her  out,  spied  on  her,  took 
notice  of  her  mistakes,  set  down  on  paper  her  dialections, 
rejoicin'  over  her  stumblin'  speech  that  I  might  set  it  out 
in  print  for  the  world  to  laugh  over.  And  all  that  I,  Abigail 
Jane  Kidder,  might  be  a  great  authoress.  Do  you  wonder 
I  was  so  ashamed  I  could  a-crawled  under  that  bed  if 
'twould  a-hid  me  from  every  human  bein'.  That  poor 
young  creatur' !  I  thinks.  Was  it  her  fault  she  used  that 
form  o'  speech,  that  "lispin',  stammerin'  tongue,"  as  the 
hymn  says  ?  Didn't  most  likely  her  own  folks  use  it,  or  simi- 
lar, in  that  fur-off  land  from  whence  she  come  ?  Mightn't 
I,  raised  's  I'd  been  in  a  civilized  c'mmunity,  amongst 
plain-speakin'  folks,  have  got  into  that  kind  o'  dialectics  if 
my  relations  and  neighbors  had  all  talked  it  in  my  com- 
p'ny  ?  Likely  enough,  for  language  is  dreadful  catchin'. 

Well,  never  mind  about  that  next  hour.  That's  between 
me  and  some  One  else.  But  when  I  got  up  off  my  knees, 
brushed  off  my  skirt,  and  smoothed  out  the  quilt,  I  knew 
as  well  as  I  know  it  this  very  minute  that  I  wasn't  ever 
goin'  to  be  a  dialectical  story-writer.  I'd  left  off  that  habit 
afore  'twas  too  strong  to  break. 

I  won't  deny  I  was  disapp'inted.  I  own  'twas  kind  o' 
hard,  one  way,  to  think  that  the  28th  of  May,  looked  ahead 
to  so  long  as  the  day  of  my  beginnin'  to  be  a  great  author- 
es§,  was,  after  all,  the  day  of  my  leavin'  off  bein'  one.  But 
I  knew  my  duty  and  I  meant  to  do  it.  You  might  think 
I  could  a-took  up  some  other  kind  of  writin'  that  wouldn't 
ask  me  to  draw  out  sing'lar  folks  and  make  fun  of  'em. 
But  somehow  the  sad  turnin'  out  of  this  experiment  kind  o' 
set  me  ag'in'  literary  things,  and  I  couldn't  scursely  look  at 
that  new  pen  and  the  clean  white  foolscap  without  feelin' 
qualmy.  So  I  ain't  an  authoress,  after  all,  and  I  guess  I 
never  will  be  now. 


320  THE  REGIONALIST  AT  WORK 

It  come  out  after  Miss  Mandeville  went  away  —  I  forgot 
to  say  she'd  gone  that  very  day  afore  I  see  her  again,  called 
home  sudden  —  it  come  out  she  was  from  Boston  way,  not 
so  dreadful  fur  off,  after  all,  and  was  some  kind  of  a  writin* 
person.  Some  folks  had  it  she  was  lookin'  up  dialectics 
herself  to  make  pieces  out  of,  but  that  couldn't  be,  I  guess, 
or  she  wouldn't  a-come  here.  Though  mebbe  she  d  been 
misinformed,  and  so,  after  she  met  me  and  the  other  folks 
and  heerd  us  talk,  she  found  out  she'd  come  to  the  wrong 
local'ty  and  went  off.  But  I  think  of  her  frequent,  and 
sometimes  I  find  myself  hopin'  that  though  she  wa'n't 
here  long  she  may  a-profited  a  mite  by  what  she  heerd,  and 
left  off  some  of  her  own  talk  and  took  on  some  o'  ourn.  As 
I  said  afore,  language  is  real  catchin',  and  we  never  know 
what  little  word  o'  ourn,  dropped  in  season,  as  they  say, 
may  spring  up  and  bear  fruit  —  yea.  a  hundredfold.  And 
mebbe  even  dialect,  if  it  ain't  been  too  long  standin',  may 
be  broke  up  and  helped,  or  mebbe  clean  cured,  take  it  in 
time  and  afore  you're  too  old  and  sot  in  your  ways. 


THE  ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING: 
STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS 

WHEN  we  try  to  learn  the  secrets  of  the  fascinating  mystery  of 
story-writing,  we  may  usefully  begin  by  examining  and  carefully 
analyzing  the  methods  of  older  writers  who  have  confessedly  mas- 
tered the  art.  Such  study  of  the  best  examples  must  be  very  soon 
followed  and  constantly  accompanied  by  efforts  to  practice  the 
mystery  for  ourselves  in  all  its  different  aspects.  Finally  our  own 
attempts  must  be  subjected  to  repeated  self-criticism  and  com- 
parison at  every  point  with  our  selected  models.  For  it  is  only  by 
the  inevitable,  though  toilsome,  process  of  writing  and  rewriting, 
discarding  and  recasting,  rejection  and  revision, —  the  road  over 
which  every  successful  writer  has  made  his  way, —  that  we  learn 
how  to  handle  our  tools  and  make  them  do  what  we  want  them 
to  do,  come  at  last  to  the  conscious  ability  to  express  our  own 
ideas,  and  achieve  the  reward  of  true  originality, —  always  pro- 
vided we  have  any.  These  three  essential  steps, —  example,  prac- 
tice, self-criticism, —  may  perhaps  be  facilitated  by  the  questions 
and  suggestions  here  presented.  The  twenty-five  study  questions, 
in  connection  with  the  brief  explanations  appended  where  they 
seem  needed,  will  guide  the  student  in  analyzing  the  stories  con- 
tained in  this  volume,  or  any  others  he  cares  to  examine.  Begin- 
ning first  with  the  plot,  he  will  proceed  in  turn  to  the  other  three 
essential  elements  of  every  story, —  character-drawing,  setting, 
and  mood, —  and  end  by  considering  a  few  problems  that  have  to 
do  with  the  story  as  a  whole.  After  each  division  he  will  find  sug- 
gestions for  exercises  and  original  stories.  When  any  of  these  have 
been  completed,  the  student  should  once  more  go  over  the  ques- 
tions and  use  them  to  discover  weaknesses  or  possible  improve- 
ments in  his  own  work.  The  whole  forms  a  brief  outline  for  a 
course  in  story-writing  which  may  be  expanded  or  altered  at  any 
point  as  circumstances  suggest. 

A.    CONCERNING  THE  PLOT 

(SruDY  particularly  the  plots  of  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp," 
*' Taking  the  Blue  Ribbon,"  "Among  the  Corn  Rows,"  "The 


322     ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

Arrival  of  a  True  Southern  Lady,"  "On  the  Walpole  Road," 
"The  Pearls  of  Loreto,"  "The  Girl  at  Duke's,"  and  "By  the  Rod 
of  His  Wrath.") 

L  Plot-Analysis.  What  are  the  vital  points,  and  what  the 
principal  parts,  in  the  progress  of  the  story?  Are  these  dis- 
tinct and  clearly  articulated? 

A  SIMPLE  method  of  analyzing  the  plot  of  a  story  is  to  pick  out  the 
three  vital  points  without  which  a  complete  plot  is  impossible : 
namely,  the  initial  step,  where  the  suspense  begins ;  the  turning 
point,  where  the  hero's  fortunes  change  from  good  to  bad,  or  from 
bad  to  good ;  and  the  denouement,  where  the  suspense  is  over.  By 
these  three  points  the  story  is  divided  into  four  principal  parts : 
first,  the  antecedent  action,  or  all  that  happens  before  the  initial 
step;  second,  the  rising  or  falling  action,  as  the  case  may  be, 
between  initial  step  and  turning  point ;  third,  the  corresponding 
falling  or  rising  action  between  turning  point  and  denouement ; 
and  fourth,  the  aftermath,  or  all  that  happens  after  the  denoue- 
ment. The  first  and  fourth  of  these  parts  are  unessential  and  may 
be  entirely  omitted ;  the  second  and  third  are  sometimes  repeated, 
in  cases  where  there  is  more  than  one  turning  point.  The  struc- 
ture of  a  story  is  most  easily  shown  by  means  of  a  diagram,  in 
which  the  three  vital  points  may  be  indicated  by  the  letters  A,  B, 
and  C.  Thus  the  plot  of  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"  is  as  fol- 
lows: 

B 


The  antecedent  action  here  is  the  founding  and  reckless  life  of 
a  typical  mining  camp.  A,  the  initial  step,  is  the  birth  of  the 
"Luck"  ("There  rose  a  sharp,  querulous  cry  —  a  cry  unlike  any- 
thing heard  before  in  the  camp").  A-B,  the  rising  action,  tells 
the  progressive  reformation  of  the  camp  under  the  influence  of  a 
little  child.  B,  the  turning-point,  is  the  flood  ("That  night  the 
North  Fork  suddenly  leaped  its  banks").  B-C,  the  falling  action, 
narrates  the  destruction  of  the  camp  and  the  death  of  many  of  its 
inhabitants.  C,  the  denouement,  is  the  death  of  the  child  and  its 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS    .    323 

protector  ("He's  a-taking  me  with  him  —  tell  the  boys  I've  got 
the  Luck  with  me  now  ") .  The  aftermath  is  entirely  omitted. 

2.  Plot-Form.    What  kind  of  plot  is  employed,  and  is  the 
variety  well-chosen? 

PLOTS  may  be  usefully  classified  in  three  ways.  When  the  falling 
action  precedes  the  rising  —  that  is,  when  the  story  opens  with 
trouble  for  the  hero  and  ends  happily  for  him,  the  plot  is  of  the 
comic  type ;  when  the  rising  action  comes  first,  then  the  falling, 
it  is  tragic.  Again,  if  the  turning-point  is  approximately  midway 
between  initial  step  and  denouement,  we  have  a  balanced  plot; 
if  the  turning-point  is  closer  to  the  end,  so  that  it  is  swiftly  or 
immediately  followed  by  the  denouement,  the  plot  may  be  called 
accelerated ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  the  turning-point  is  close  to  the 
initial  step,  and  the  bulk  of  the  story  comes  between  the  turn  and 
the  denouement,  the  plot  is  retarded.  Finally,  when  there  is  but 
one  plot  and  one  set  of  vital  points  and  parts,  the  plot  is  simple ; 
if  there  are  several  successive  ups  and  downs,  involving  repeated 
or  secondary  initial  steps,  turning-points,  or  denouements,  the 
plot  may  be  termed  compound ;  and  if  two  or  more  distinct  plots 
are  interwoven,  we  have  what  may  be  called  a  complex  plot. 

Thus  the  plot  of  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  as  diagrammed 
above,  may  be  classified  as  simple,  tragic," and  accelerated.  The 
plot  of  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath,"  on  the  other  hand,  is  simple, 
tragic,  and  retarded : 


Af  the  initial  step,  is  the  beginning  of  John  Markley's  good 
reputation  among  his  townspeople  ("Men  began  calling  him 
*  Honest  John  Markley'").  A-B,  the  rising  action,  tells  of  his 
increasing  prosperity  and  popularity.  B,  the  turning-point,  is  the 
entrance  into  his  life  of  Isabel  Hobart  ("And  then  came  the 
crash").  B-C,  the  falling  action,  describes  his  loss  of  the  esteem 
of  his  fellow-citizens  and  his  growing  loneliness.  C,  the  denoue- 
ment, is  his  stroke  of  paralysis  ("He  fell  down  the  hard  oak 
stairs").  And  the  years  of  hopeless  misery  that  followed  are  the 
aftermath.  < 


324      ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

Again,  in  "The  Girl  at  Duke's"  we  find  a  compound,  comic, 
accelerated  plot.  There  are  no  fewer  than  seven  turning-points, 
and  hence  we  have  in  alternation  four  falling  and  four  rising 
actions : 


Miss  Dudley  journeys  West  to  live  with  her  uncle  on  his  Ari- 
zona ranch  (antecedent  action).  But  when  she  arrives  at  the 
station,  Duke's,  she  finds  no  one  to  meet  her  (A).  After  a  lonely 
wait  (A-B1),  the  foreman  arrives  at  the  station  (Bl).  She  pro- 
ceeds  to  ride  with  him  to  the  ranch  (Bl-B2) ;  but  on  reaching  it 
she  encounters  (B2) ,  instead  of  her  uncle,  the  sinister  personality 
of  Big  Ed.  She  grows  alarmed  and  almost  panic-stricken  (B^-B3), 
until  she  is  reassured  (#3)  by  discovering  her  uncle's  signature 
in  one  of  his  books.  She  rests,  discovers  the  beauty  of  the  desert 
landscape,  and  makes  friends  with  the  youthful  foreman  (B3-!?4). 
But  a  second  time  she  is  alarmed  by  the  interference  of  Big  Ed 
(J54) ;  and  she  passes  a  night  of  sleepless  apprehension  (B*-B5),  till 
she  hears  shots  in  the  dark  (B6),  and  finds  renewed  reassurance 
and  protection  (B*-B*).  In  the  morning,  however,  her  worst  fears 
are  confirmed  by  the  news  (B*)  of  her  uncle's  death,  and  she  must 
return  to  Duke's  with  her,  protector  (ff-B').  Before  the  train 
arrives,  however,  she  learns  what  the  boy  has  done  for  her  (IT), 
and  a  brief  love-scene  (B7-C)  brings  the  proper  ending  (C,  "She 
knelt  beside  him,  and  his  arm  closed  around  her"). 

One  further  example  may  be  given.  In  "At  the  'Cadian  Ball" 
we  have  a  complex  plot,  of  which  the  two  interwoven  members 
are,  both  of  them,  simple,  comic,  and  accelerated : 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       325 

Skillfully  paralleling  the  main  plot,  that  of  the  young  planter 
Laballiere,  and  his  love  for  Clarisse,  is  the  plot  of  the  Acadian 
farmer  Bobin6t  and  his  love  for  Calixta.  We  begin  with  o,  the 
initial  step  of  the  minor  plot  —  Bobin6t's  despair  of  ever  winning 
Calixta' s  favor ;  and  immediately  follows  A,  the  scene  where  the 
young  planter  is  repulsed  by  the  aristocratic  Clarisse.  Then 
comes  the  falling  action  A-B,  a  series  of  misfortunes  for  Labal- 
liere, culminating  in  his  reckless  impulse  to  run  away  with  the 
Acadian  beauty.  Meanwhile  (a-6)  Bobinot  is  having  an  equally 
bad  time.  Just  before  it  is  too  late,  at  B,  the  turning-point  for 
Laballiere,  Clarisse  relents ;  and  similarly  at  b  comes  a  change  of 
heart  to  Calixta.  Two  brief  love-scenes,  B-C  and  6-c,  end,  at  C 
and  c  respectively,  happily  for  each  lover. 

3.  Plot-Proportion.    Is  the  movement  of  the  story  well-reg* 
ulated,  or  could  the  scenes  have  been  better  proportioned 
in  length  and  amount  of  detail? 

THIS  is  best  seen  by  constructing  a  scene-plot,  or  scenario.  A 
scene  in  a  story  is  all  that  happens  at  a  single  place  and  on  a  single 
occasion.  A  scenario  is  a  list  of  the  scenes,  including  a  title  for 
each,  its  place,  time,  characters,  and  length,  together  with  any 
intervening  passages  of  summary,  description,  or  discussion.  For 
example,  the  scenario  of  "Among  the  Corn  Rows"  would  read  as 
follows : 

Description  of  the  cornfield  (66  words).  First  scene:  the 
Return  of  Rob  Rodemaker ;  a  morning  in  July ;  by  the  riverside ; 
Julia  Peterson,  her  brother  Otto,  and  Rob  (about  1000  words). 
Second  scene :  Getting  Better  Acquainted ;  noon ;  by  the  fence ; 
same  characters  (about  500  words).  Summary  of  the  dinner,  with 
descriptions  of  Julia's  parents  (about  500  words).  Third  scene: 
Julia's  Discontent ;  after  dinner ;  in  the  yard ;  Rob  and  Julia  (about 
400  words).  Summary  of  Rob's  self-communion  and  decision  (250 
words).  Fourth  scene:  the  Proposal;  afternoon;  by  the  fence; 
Rob,  Julia,  and  Otto  (about  1600  words).  Fifth  scene :  the  Elope- 
ment; same  evening;  at  the  fence;  Rob  and  Julia  (200  words). 

4.  Plot-Order.    In  telling  the  story,  does  the  author  follow 
or  depart  from  the  strict  chronological  order  of  events?    How 
far  is  his  adherence  or  departure  justified? 

WE  have  the  straightforward  order  when  the  events  are  related  in 
succession  just  as  they  occur,  as  in  a  chronicle ;  the  reversed  order 
when  the  events  are  told  backwards,  beginning  after  the  story  is 


326     ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

over,  as  in  some  detective  stories ;  and  the  broken  order  when  the 
story  runs  partly  forward,  partly  backwards,  or  when  there  are 
deliberate  omissions. 

The  plot-order  of  a  story  may  be  best  studied  by  making  an 
event-plot  or  chronicle.  For  instance,  in  "On  the  Walpole  Road" 
there  are  five  events,  separated  by  wide  intervals,  actually  occur- 
ring in  the  following  order  (the  prefixed  numbers  show  the  order 
in  which  they  are  narrated  in  the  story) : 

(3)  Aunt  Rebecca's  unwilling  marriage  to  Uncle  Enos.  (Inter- 
val of  many  years,  exact  number  not  stated,  but  enough  to  carry 
her  from  girlhood  to  old  age.)  (2)  Uncle  Enos's  funeral.  (Inter- 
val of  two  years.)  (4)  Aunt  Rebecca's  second  marriage,  this  time 
to  her  old  lover  Abner  Lyons.  (Interval  of  five  years  and  seven 
months.)  (5)  Death  of  Aunt  Rebecca.  (Interval  of  a  year  and  a 
hah5.)  (6)  Death  of  Abner  Lyons.  (Interval  of  over  ten  years,  oi 
twenty  years  after  the  funeral  of  Uncle  Enos.)  (1)  The  drive  to 
Walpole  of  Mrs.  Green  and  Almira. 

For  another  example  of  broken  order  study  "The  Arrival  of  a 
True  Southern  Lady" ;  for  judicious  omissions  study  "Among  the 
Corn-Rows"  and  "The  Pearls  of  Loreto." 

5.  Plot-Interest.    What  sort  of  interest  or  suspense  does  the 
story  offer?    If  there  is  more  than  one  kind  of  suspense,  how 
are  they  interwoven? 

THE  interest  proper  to  any  story  is  always  its  suspense;  but  this 
suspense  may  be  aroused  either  about  the  future,  the  past,  or  the 
present.  When  it  is  about  the  future  —  that  is,  about  the  out- 
come of  a  given  situation  —  we  may  call  it  deductive ;  when 
about  the  past  —  that  is,  about  the  cause  or  explanation  of  a 
given  situation,  as  in  a  detective  or  mystery  story  —  we  may  call 
it  inductive ;  when  about  the  present  or  permanent  truth  —  that 
is,  about  the  answer  to  some  ethical  or  philosophic  question,  as 
in  a  problem  story  —  we  may  call  it  speculative  suspense. 

Study  how  the  deductive  and  inductive  kinds  of  suspense  are 
interwoven  in  "The  Girl  at  Duke's";  how  the  deductive  and 
speculative  are  interwoven  in  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath." 

6.  Plot-Handling.    Is  the  plot  developed  with  due  attention 
to  the  three  essential  qualities  of  suspense,  surprise,  and  sat- 
isfaction?  Can  you  suggest  how  it  might  have  been  bet- 
tered in  any  of  these  respects? 

IN  an  ideal  plot,  we  should  have  the  utmost  possible  suspense 
before  the  denouement,  the  greatest  possible  surprise  at  the 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       327 

denouement,  and  the  most  genuine  satisfaction  after  the  denoue- 
ment. The  first  and  second  of  these  qualities  may  rightly  be  sacri- 
ficed to  some  extent,  if  necessary,  for  the  sake  of  other  interests 
beside  plot;  but  when  the  third  quality  is  sacrificed,  the  story 
inevitably  becomes  what  is  called  a  melodrama  or  farce  —  that  is, 
second-rate. 

SUGGESTIONS  FOB  EXERCISES  IN  PLOT-CONSTRUCTION  AND 
PLOT-HANDLING 

a.  Read  to  the  class  a  well-constructed  story,  up  to  the  turning- 
point  ;  then  ask  them  to  complete  it,  and  compare  the  results 
with  the  original.  Two  good  stories  for  this  purpose  are  H.  G. 
Wells's  "The  Country  of  the  Blind"  and  "Miss  Winchelsea's 
Heart." 

b.  Read  the  closing  scene,  or  denouement,  of  a  story,  with  only 
such  explanation  as  is  necessary,  and  ask  the  class  to  supply 
an  adequate  preparation;  then  compare  with  the  original. 
Two  excellent  denouements  for  this  purpose  may  be  found  in 
H.  C.  Bunner's  "The  Love  Letters  of  Smith"  and  Algernon 
Blackwood's  "The  Haunted  Island." 

C.  Summarize  briefly  some  well-constructed  story  with  which 
the  class  is  unfamiliar,  and  ask  them  to  write  the  entire  story. 
Here  again  a  comparison  of  results  will  be  equivalent  to  the 
criticism  of  an  expert. 

d.  Use  in  the  same  way  one  of  the  following  practice  plots,  each 
of  which  will  be  found  to  have  sharply  marked  and  effective 
turns  and  climaxes.  (The  three  "vital  points"  are  marked 
with  the  letters  A,  B,  and  C.) 

(1)  Mr.  Swiggles  decides  at  the  last  moment  that  he  does 
not  wish  to  marry  Amanda  Jenkins,  and  (A)  answers  "I 
won't"  instead  of  "I  will"  at  the  altar.  Then  he  escapes 
through  the  window.  Mr.  Jenkins,  Amanda's  father,  looks 
for  him  with  a  shot-gun,  and  finds  him.  But  Swiggles  refuses 
to  do  his  duty  until  he  is  assured  (B)  that  if,  in  order  to  repair 
Miss  Jenkins's  humiliation,  he  will  go  through  the  service 
again,  she  this  time  will  refuse  to  take  the  final  vow.  At  the 
second  service,  however,  when  the  time  comes  for  Amanda  to 
say  "I  won't,"  she  (C)  says  "I  will." 

(2)  A  heavy  freight  train,  when  nearly  at  the  top  of  a 
mountain,  breaks  in  two  (A)  of  its  own  weight,  and  the  cars 
start  down  grade.  The  danger  is  telegraphed  to  the  station  at 
the  foot.  An  important  passenger  train,  with  a  party  of 


328      ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

wealthy  business  men,  is  due.  Dick  Benson,  a  young  engineer 
who,  after  having  been  expelled  from  school,  has  left  home 
and  drifted  into  railway  work,  volunteers  to  take  a  switch 
engine  up  the  grade  to  stop  the  runaway.  When  as  close  to 
the  down-coming  freight  as  he  dares  get,  he  reverses  his 
engine  and  starts  downward  again,  in  order  to  break  the 
force  of  the  collision.  The  collision  comes,  and  with  it  a  pro- 
longed and  desperate  struggle  to  keep  on  the  track  and  stop. 
Dick  fights  the  runaway  till  (B}  he  conquers  its  momentum 
just  outside  the  station.  As  he  alights  from  the  cab  (C),  he 
meets  his  father  on  the  passenger  train  that  he  has  saved. 

(3)  Elsie  Cheatham,  a  pretty  but  selfish  girl,  has  a  warm 
admirer  in  her  home  town.  His  name  is  John  Wilson.  She 
comes  away  to  attend  school  in  another  town.  Finding  life  a 
little  dull  there,  she  forms  a  plan  (A)  with  the  aid  of  her  room- 
mate, Kitty  Powell,  to  impose  upon  John's  interest  in  her. 
She  has  Kitty  write  him  that  Elsie  is  down  with  influenza 
and  in  the  hospital.  A  gratifying  stream  of  flowers,  then 
books,  and  finally  candy  is  the  result,  while  Kitty  continues 
to  write  and  report  the  patient's  gradual  recovery.  But  an 
important  social  function  approaching,  for  which  Elsie  spe- 
cially desires  flowers,  she  gets  Kitty  to  write  to  John  (B)  that 
she  has  had  a  sudden  relapse.  Promptly  the  desired  flowers 
arrive.  That  evening  Elsie  comes  down  the  stairway  wearing 
the  flowers  and  looking  the  picture  of  health,  to  join  her 
escort  to  the  dance.  Meanwhile  John  is  so  anxious  that  he  has 
come  up  to  the  school  in  person,  and  Elsie  finds  both  men 
waiting  for  her  in  the  drawing-room.  After  a  brief  but  pointed 
conversation  (C),  both  men  depart,  leaving  Elsie  with  her 
flowers. 

(4)  Algernon  Stuyvesant  is  a  widowed  mother's  only  care 
and  has  never  been  allowed  away  from  home.  All  his  prepar- 
atory training  has  been  done  by  private  tutors.  When  he 
comes  away  to  school,  his  mother,  much  to  his  disappointment, 
insists  on  coming  with  him.     She  takes  a  house  in  the  town  so 
that  she  can  watch  over  him.  Algernon  is  a  big  heavy  fellow, 
and  would  like  to  take  part  in  football,  but  his  mother  thinks 
that  idea  too  dreadful  to  contemplate.  On  the  first  night  in 
the  school  town  (A)  he  goes  out,  promising  to  return  by  nine 
o'clock.  He  gets  into  a  class  fight;  his  fighting  blood  is 
aroused,  and  he  helps  materially  to  turn  the  conflict  against 
the  opposing  class,  though  himself  badly  bruised  in  the 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       329 

process  (B).  When  he  gets  home,  a  bit  after  twelve,  his 
mother  nearly  collapses.  She  is  about  to  send  for  a  doctor  and 
trained  nurse;  but  at  this  point  Algernon  asserts  himself. 
The  next  morning  when  some  prominent  upper-classmen  call 
and  ask  Algernon  to  come  out  for  the  team  (C)  his  mother 
consents. 

(5)  Alfred  Vanderwent,  millionaire's  son,  vain  and  spoiled, 
has  been  chief  pitcher  on  the  school  team  during  his  first  two 
years.  But  he  meets  his  superior  on  the  diamond  when  his 
last  year  brings  a  newcomer,  Silas  Hanks.  Bitterly  disap- 
pointed at  losing  his  position  on  the  team,  Vanderwent 
employs  a  private  detective   to  look  up  Hanks's  record. 
Hanks  is  very  poor,  and  it  is  discovered  that  his  father  is  a 
convict  in  the  State  penitentiary.  During  an  important  game, 
Vanderwent  has  one  of  his  friends  call  out  an  insulting  refer- 
ence to  the  pitcher's  father.  Unnerved  by  this  proof  that  his 
secret  is  known,  Hanks  goes  to  pieces,  loses  the  game,  and 
immediately  afterwards    is    dropped   from   the  team.    In 
despair,  he  packs  up  and  is  about  to  leave  school.  But  mean- 
while (B)  an  upper-classman,  passing  through  the  grand- 
stand, picks  up  a  telegram  sent  to  Vanderwent  by  the  detec- 
tive, and  learns  from  it  the  unfair  methods  that  have  been 
employed   to  injure  Hanks.  He  makes  his  discovery   (C) 
known  at  a  student  mass-meeting,  and  Vanderwent  is  run 
out  of  school  by  public  sentiment,  while  Hanks  regains  his 
position,  and  steps  are  taken  to  help  him  prove  his  father's 
innocence. 

(6)  Tom  Hood,  sophomore,  has  a  grudge  against  Harry 
Brown,  incoming  freshman,  in  connection  with  their  rival 
attentions  to  the  same  gir1  back  in  the  home  town.  Hood 
prepares  to  see  that  Brown  is  unmercifully  hazed,  in  spite  of  a 
strict  college  rule  that  any  one  detected  in  hazing  will  be 
immediately  expelled.  Brown  and  his  room-mate  are  inter- 
ested in  amateur  dramatics,  and  have  considerable  experience 
in  the  art  of  make-up.  Hood  comes  (A)  with  some  sophomore 
friends  one  night  to  Brown's  boarding-house ;  they  plant  a 
laddei  beneath  the  window  that  Hood  feels  sure  belongs  to 
Brown's  room,  and  Hood  mounts  and  enters.  The  room  is 
dark  and  empty.  Hearing  feminine  voices  at  the  door  (B), 
Hood  hastily  conceals  himself  in  a  closet.  Discovered,  and 
threatened  with  exposure,  he  is  forced  to  confess  his  designs 
for  Brown's  discomfiture ;  and  in  spite  of  his  abject  apologies 


330      ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

the  girls  compel  him  to  perform  all  the  "stunts"  that  he  had 
in  mind  for  Brown,  before  they  at  last  permit  him  to  with- 
draw. The  next  day  he  discovers  (C)  that  Brown  and  his 
room-mate,  who  had  learned  of  his  intended  visit  before- 
hand, have  entertained  him  in  disguise. 

;  (7)  Grace  Denham  is  an  ambitious  girl,  whose  keen  desire 
.  to  make  her  way  in  life  and  to  rise  in  the  world  is  partly 
explained  by  the  circumstances  of  her  childhood.  She  remem- 
bers days  of  wretched  poverty  and  more  than  one  bitter 
humiliation,  and  she  realizes  that  the  hardships  of  her  home 
were  due  to  her  father's  incapacity  for  "getting  on"  in  the 
world.  Grace  loves  her  father,  who  has  many  attractive 
traits  and  the  most  charming  disposition  in  the  world,  but 
!  she  is  forced  to  admit  to  herself  that  he  has  always  lacked  the 
faculty  of  success,  and  she  knows  what  poverty  has  meant  to 
her  mother.  While  away  at  school  she  is  receiving  attention 
04)  from  Philip  Severance,  a  man  with  all  sorts  of  admirable 
and  attractive  qualities.  She  cares  for  him ;  but  a  certain 
incident  (B)  reveals  to  her  that  his  character  is  almost  a 
replica  of  her  father's,  and  she  comes  to  see  that  he  too  will 
never  succeed  in  life ;  and  she  consequently  (C)  refuses  him. 
(N.B.  These  plots,  or  plots  closely  resembling  them,  have 
been  employed  in  well-known  published  stories ;  consequently 
they  cannot  be  used  in  stories  offered  for  publication  without 
rendering  the  author  liable  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism.  They 
may  be  legitimately  utilized  for  practice  stories,  or  in  the 
construction  of  plot-diagrams,  scenarios,  and  event-plots,  as 
illustrated  above.  Time  spent  in  preliminary  planning  along 
such  lines,  before  the  actual  composition  of  any  story  is 
begun,  will  always  be  found  time  saved  in  the  end.) 
e.  Build  up  an  original  and  complete  plot  from  some  germinal 
incident  or  situation  taken  either  from  your  own  experience, 
from  your  observation  of  others,  from  your  reading  of  history, 
biographies,  or  newspapers,  or  from  your  imagination.  Test 
it,  to  make  sure  of  the  presence  of  the  vital  points,  by  making 
a  diagram ;  then  work  out  a  careful  and  detailed  scenario,  and 
also  an  event-plot;  and  then  write  the  story,  preferably 
beginning  with  the  last  scene. 

B.  CONCERNING  THE  CHARACTERIZATION 

(FOR  character-drawing  study  particularly  "Taking  the  Blue 
Ribbon,'*  "Ben  and  Judas,"  "Among  the  Corn-Rows,"  "Ellie's 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       831 

Furnishing,"  "On  the  Walpole  Road,"  "At  the  'Cadian  Ball," 
"The  Girl  at  Duke's,"  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath,"  and  "A 
Municipal  Report.") 

7.  Grouping.    Which  cnaracter  is  the  hero,  and  how  are  the 
minor  characters  used,  by  their  number  and  selection,  to 
set  off  the  main  character  or  characters? 

NOTE  particularly  the  effective  choice  of  minor  characters  and 
the  skillful  grouping  in  "Taking  the  Blue  Ribbon,"  "Among  the 
Corn-Rows,"  "On  the  Walpole  Road,"  and  "At  the  'Cadian 
Ball." 

8.  Means.    What  means  of  character-drawing  are  mainly 
employed?    Can  you  suggest  how  other  means  might  be 
helpfully  substituted  or  added? 

THE  means  of  presenting  character  may  be  classified  as  seven  in 
number.  Three  of  these  may  be  called  direct  means:  namely, 
Action  (including  both  habitual  and  momentary  actions,  and 
gestures) ;  Talk  (as  adapted  to  the  age,  class,  education,  home, 
or  personality  of  the  character) ;  and  Thoughts  (including  reflec- 
tions, sensations,  and  emotions).  One  is  neutral  in  its  nature  — 
the  Reactions  (that  is,  contrast  with  other  characters  and  effects 
upon  their  thoughts,  words,  and  actions).  Three  are  indirect: 
namely,  Setting  (including  dress,  possessions,  home,  name,  bio- 
graphical details) ;  Looks  (that  is,  personal  appearance,  whether 
revealing,  misleading,  or  indifferent) ;  and  Analysis  (explicit  and 
detailed  statement). 

Contrast  the  means  of  characterization  in  "At  the  'Cadian 
Ball,"  almost  exclusively  direct,  with  the  mainly  indirect  means 
used  in  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath."  Study  the  use  made  of 
Reactions  in  "On  the  Walpole  Road"  and  "The  Girl  at  Duke's." 

9.  Method.    Are  the  characters  predominantly  types  or  indi- 
(•     viduals?    Is  the  method  chosen  the  best  in  each  case? 

A  TYPE  is  a  character  drawn  with  the  emphasis  mainly  upon  a 
single  quality  or  social  relation ;  an  individual  is  a  combination  of 
diverse  characteristics.  Nearly  all  the  stories  in  this  collection 
use  exclusively  the  typical  method  of  characterization,  as  it  is 
natural  for  local-color  stories  to  do.  The  other  method  is  illus- 
trated, however,  in  "The  Girl  at  Duke's"  and  "By  the  Rod  of 
His  Wrath."  , 


332      ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

10.  Dialogue.    Is  enough  dialogue  used  for  effective  character- 
ization?   Is  there  any  superfluous    dialogue?    Is  it  real 
talk?    Is  it  in  character?    Is  it  readable? 

STUDY  particularly  the  dialogue  of  "Taking  the  Blue  Ribbon,'* 
"Benand  Judas,"' "Ellie's  Furnishing,"  "On  the  Walpole Road," 
and  "  At  the  'Cadian  Ball." 

11.  Effectiveness.    Do  the  characters  live?    If  not,  why  not? 

SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STORIES  OF  CHARACTERIZATION 

a.  Make  a  character-sketch,  using  the  three  indirect  means  of 
characterization,  of  one  of  the  following  types : 

(1)  A  football  player  who  is  a  giant  in  body,  but  at  bottom 
a  physical  coward  (might  perhaps  be  contrasted  with  his 
opposite).  (2)  A  brilliant  student  (man  or  woman)  who  wants 
at  the  same  time  to  take  a  leading  part  in  school  life  and  to 
have  a  reputation  for  intellectual  ability,  and  who,  in  order  to 
keep  up  the  latter  pose,  is  gradually  led  to  take  up  dishonest 
methods.  (3)  An  ambitious  girl  who  is  receiving  attention 
from  a  man  whom  she  cares  for,  but  sees  clearly  will  never 
succeed  in  life.  (4)  An  honest  and  honorable  man  with  an 
ungovernable  temper,  who  has  to  stand  a  cross-examination 
at  the  hands  of  a  clever  and  unscrupulous  lawyer  who  knows 
his  weakness.  (5)  A  pretty  but  selfish  girl  who  imposes  upon 
an  admirer  in  order  to  have  a  good  time  without  meaning  to 
make  him  any  return.  (6)  An  ambitious  but  not  very  able 
student  who  receives  credit  for  a  brilliant  story  in  the  school 
magazine,  really  contributed  by  another  student  with  the 
same  initials,  and  who  is  asked,  through  the  agency  of  an 
instructor,  to  submit  more  of  his  work  to  an  Eastern  maga- 
,  zine ;  let  him  be  very  envious  of  the  superior  ability  of  the 
real  author.  (7)  A  brilliant  but  incurably  indolent  student, 
who  is  chosen  upon  the  debating  team  (or  to  take  part  in  a 
dramatic  performance),  but  who  neglects  adequate  prepara- 
tion until  the  appointed  day. 

b.  Write  a  scene  in  dialogue,  using  one  or  more  of  the  types  men- 
tioned above,  and  employing  the  three  direct  means  of  char- 
acterization. Put  the  characters  in  a  situation  such  as  one  of 
the  following : 

(1)  Two  men  who  are  trapped  on  the  top  story  of  a  burning 
building.  (2)  Two  girls  sitting  up  to  talk  over  a  dance.  (3) 
A  girl  and  a  man  who  proposes  marriage,  but  is  rejected.  (4) 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       333 

A  policeman  and  a  man  who,  though  innocent,  has  been 
arrested  on  account  of  a  mistaken  likeness.  (5)  Two  foreign- 
ers of  different  nationalities  discussing  their  first  visit  to  a 
baseball  game.  (6)  A  teacher  and  a  pupil  who,  though  inno- 
cent, has  been  accused  of  cheating.  (7)  A  mistress  and  her 
cook,  as  a  result  of  which  the  cook  is  offended  and  leaves.  (8) 
A  farmer  and  his  son  who  has  just  been  expelled  from  school 
and  has  returned  home. 

c.  Having  become  acquainted  with  your  character  in  this  way, 
find  a  complete  plot  in  which  you  can  place  him.  It  has  been 
said  that  a  story  should  always  exhibit  "conduct  in  a  crisis" ; 
with  this  in  mind,  build  up  a  story  around  your  character  by 
inventing  some  crisis  that  will  clearly  reveal  his  or  her  nature. 
Use  as  much  of  your  character-sketch  and  dialogue  as  will  fit 
in  the  complete  story. 

d.  Develop  in  the  same  way  a  character  based  upon  some  pic- 
turesque individual  or  some  forceful  personality  you  have 
known  or  read  about. 

C.  CONCERNING  THE  SETTING 

(FoR  setting  study  all  the  stories  in  this  collection) 

12.  Backgrounds.  What  is  the  imaginary  place,  time,  and  social 
setting  of  the  story?  Is  any  one  of  these  three  settings 
made  the  dominant  feature  of  the  story?  Is  any  one  of 
them  neglected? 

EVERY  story  must  have  a  threefold  setting  —  local,  temporal,  and 
social  —  although  one  or  more  of  these  different  aspects  of  the 
setting  may  be  comparatively  ignored  in  case  the  chief  interest 
lies  elsewhere.  When  the  local  setting  is  the  dominant  element  in 
the  story,  as  it  is  in  all  the  stories  contained  in  this  volume,  we 
have  a  local-color  story;  when  the  dominant  element  is  the  age  or 
period  when  the  story  occurs,  we  have  a  historical  short  story; 
when  the  dominant  element  is  the  social  class,  group,  or  profes- 
sion to  which  the  characters  belong,  we  have  a  story  of  social 
background.  The  last-named  variety,  although  often  confused 
with  the  local-color  story,  is  essentially  distinct. 

Although  the  stories  here  brought  together  are  all  primarily 
local-color  stories,  we  find  more  or  less  attention  paid  to  the 
historical  setting  in  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  "The  Arrival 
of  a  True  Southern  Lady,"  "The  Pearls  of  Loreto,"  "The  Win- 
digo,"  and  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath."  In  the  last-mentioned 


334     ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

story  we  have  also  a  distinctive  social  background  (journalism), 
and  another  (tramp-life)  in  "The  Making  of  a  New  Yorker." 

13.  Means.    What  means  of  obtaining  "  local  color  "  have  been 
mainly  employed  in  the  story?    Can  you  suggest  how  others 
might  have  been  usefully  added  or  substituted  ? 

THE  means  of  obtaining  local  color  are  chiefly  five :  (1)  Types,  or 
distinctive  selection  of  characters;  (2)  Talk,  or  distinctive  dia- 
lect; (3)  Customs,  or  distinctive  social  usages;  (4)  Traditions,  or 
distinctive  inherited  ideals;  (5)  Descriptions,  or  distinctive  por- 
trayal of  the  natural  or  social  background. 

Study  how,  in  accordance  with  the  plan  followed  in  arranging 
this  collection,  the  stories  in  the  first  group  called  "American 
Types"  secure  their  local  color  chiefly  by  means  of  their  character 
types,  aided  by  dialect  and  distinctive  customs;  how  tradition  is 
added  in  the  second  group,  called  "American  Traditions,"  and 
description  of  the  natural  background  in  the  third  group,  called 
"American  Landscapes";  while  all  the  means  are  blended  in  the 
fourth  and  final  group  entitled  "American  Communities." 

14.  Dialect.    What  sort  of  dialect,  if  any,  is  employed,  and  how 
is  it  chiefly  indicated?    Is  it  accurate?  appropriate?  read- 
able? 

DIALECT  may  be  indicated  in  four  ways ;  by  the  pronunciation  (as 
conveyed  generally  by  distorting  the  spelling),  by  the  vocabulary, 
by  the  idioms,  or  by  the  rhythm  and  cadence.  Here  also  the 
stories  in  this  volume  show  a  progress  in  delicacy  and  in  read- 
ability. Earlier  stories,  such  as  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp," 
"Taking  the  Blue  Ribbon,"  and  "Ben  and  Judas,"  depend  almost 
entirely  on  distorted  spelling;  later  ones,  such  as  "Among  the 
Corn-Rows,'*  "Ellie's  Furnishing,"  "On  the  Walpole  Road," 
pay  much  more  attention  to  vocabulary  and  idiom;  the  most 
recent,  such  as  "The  Girl  at  Duke's"  and  "By  the  Rod  of  His 
Wrath,"  use  idiom  almost  exclusively.  In  the  most  finished 
specimens  of  dialect  writing,  such  as  "At  the  'Cadian  Ball,"  "A 
Municipal  Report,"  "A  Local  Colorist,"  there  is  exquisite  illus- 
tration of  all  four  methods.  Especially  interesting  in  this  regard 
is  a  comparison  of  an  early  and  a  late  example  of  similar  dialects, 
as  for  instance  Bret  Harte  and  Jack  London  for  the  talk  of 
prospector  and  miner,  or  Maurice  Thompson  and  O.  Henry  or 
Cohen  for  negro  dialect. 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       335 

15.  Description.    What  methods  of  description  are  chiefly 
employed?    Is  enough  description  used  for  fullest  effec- 
tiveness?   Is  there  any  superfluous  description?    Are 
the  descriptive  passages  well  distributed? 

SOME  of  the  more  important  methods  of  description  are  objective, 
subjective  or  focused,  selective  or  snapshot,  description  by  effect, 
and  description  colored  by  emotion.  Study  for  masterly  use  of 
every  sort  of  description  especially  "Among  the  Corn-Rows," 
"The  Windigo,"  "The  Girl  at  Duke's,"  and  "Love  of  Life." 

16.  Names.    Are  the  names  selected  for  the  characters  and 
places  suitable  in  every  way  to  the  setting  of  the  story? 
Has  any  attempt  also  been  made  to  suit  them  to  the  per- 
sonalities to  which  they  belong? 

ALL  of  our  stories  show  skillful  adaptation  of  names  to  the  most 
diverse  localities  and  social  backgrounds.  The  only  attempt  to 
suit  them  also  to  personalities  is  in  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath/' 
and  there  only  in  nicknames,  such  as  "Honest  John  Markley," 
"Alphabetical  Morrison,"  or  the  spelling  "Ysabelle"  for  "Isa- 
bel." 

SUGGESTIONS  FOB  STORIES  OF  LOCAL  COLOR,  HISTORICAL  OB 
SOCIAL  BACKGROUND 

a.  Select  one  of  the  following  settings : 

A  ravine  by  a  gigantic  waterfall;  a  small  hermit  shack  on  a 
little  farm  high  on  a  mountain ;  a  small  island  on  the  seashore 
or  on  a  lake;  a  lighthouse;  a  tenement  under  the  end  of  a 
suspension  bridge  in  a  great  city;  a  country  store;  a  little 
bakeshop  in  a  city;  a  power  station;  an  engine-  or  boiler- 
room;  the  spire  of  a  church  or  summit  of  a  skyscraper;  an 
tlevator;  a  cab;  a  street-car;  a  city  office;  a  river  show-boat; 
a  sleeping-car;  inside  a  boiler;  a  ranch;  a  foreign  city  you 
have  studied  in  books;  an  art-gallery;  a  camp  in  the  woods; 
an  airplane  or  dirigible  balloon;  an  armored  tank;  a  sub- 
marine. 

One  of  the  twenty-five  American  or  the  twenty  foreign 
settings  employed  in  the  local  stories  listed  on  pages  340-44. 

Some  new  region,  section,  or  locality  with  which  you  are 
familiar  and  which  you  believe  capable  of  furnishing  an 
effective  background. 


336      ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

One  of  the  social  backgrounds  illustrated  in  the  stories 
listed  on  page  344,  or  some  new  social  background  of  your 
own  choice. 

Your  favorite  period  of  past  history  (compare  the  group  of 
historical  short  stories  listed  on  page  345),  or  some  future  age 
in  which  you  would  like  to  live. 

b.  Write  a  descriptive  sketch  of  the  setting  you  have  chosen. 
Use  the  following  recipe  for  successful  local-color  stories: 
Take  six  peculiarities  of  dialect,  five  distinctive  customs,  four 
typical  localities,  three  distinctive  types  of  character,  two 
special  traditions,  and  one  plot  that  could  not  happen  any- 
where else,  and  combine  judiciously  and  sympathetically. 
A  preliminary  descriptive  essay  may  serve  as  a  sort  of  palette 
on  which  to  collect  and  prepare  all  the  ingredients  of  local 
color  except  the  plot. 

c.  Find  your  plot  and  write  the  story,  using  as  much  of  your 
preliminary  sketch  as  you  find  to  be  really  suitable. 

D.  CONCERNING  THE  MOOD 

17.  Atmosphere.  What  is  the  prevailing  mood  of  the  story? 
Can  you  suggest  any  way  in  which  the  chosen  mood  might 
have  been  better  sustained  or  intensified? 

STORY  moods,  of  course  fall  primarily  into  the  two  great  divisions 
of  comedy  and  tragedy.  More  precisely,  an  ascending  scale  of 
moods  may  be  distinguished,  running  all  the  way  from  the  Ludi- 
crous, or  Farcical,  through  the  Fantastic,  Pure  Comedy,  the 
Grotesque,  the  Burlesque,  Irony,  Satire,  Sentiment,  Pathos,  Pure 
Tragedy,  the  Terrible,  to  the  Horrible.  For  examples  see  the  list 
on  page  347.  A  number  of  these  moods  are  exemplified  in  our  col- 
lection. We  have  the  spirit  of  pure  comedy  in  "Taking  the  Blue 
Ribbon,"  "On  the  Walpole  Road,"  and  "The  Windigo,"  of 
comedy  touched  with  farce  in  "Ben  and  Judas,"  with  the  gro- 
tesque in  "The  Making  of  a  New  Yorker,"  or  with  irony  in 
"Ellie's  Furnishing"  and  "A  Local  Colorist";  studies  in  various 
kinds  of  sentiment  in  "Among  the  Corn-Rows,"  "At  the  'Cadian 
Ball,"  and  "  The  Girl  at  Duke's  " ;  studies  in  pathos  in  "  The  Luck 
of  Roaring  Camp"  and  "A  Municipal  Report";  almost  pure 
tragedy  in  "The  Arrival  of  a  True  Southern  Lady,"  "The  Pearls 
of  Loreto,"  and  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath" ;  and  tragedy  with  a 
touch  of  the  terrible  in  "Love  of  Life." 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       337 

18.  Ideal.    Does  the  story  contain  any  ideal  or  inner  truth? 
Has  it  any  definite  purpose,  or  does  it  raise  a  moral  or  social 
problem,  or  does  it  teach  any  lesson?    If  so,  is  this  pur- 
pose or  lesson  artistically  interwoven? 

SOME  instances  of  idealism  skillfully  embodied  in  a  story  may  be 
studied  in  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  "Ben  and  Judas," 
and  "Among  the  Corn-Rows" ;  and  we  may  learn  from  the  repre- 
sentatives of  New  England  and  the  Middle  West,  as  might  be 
expected,  how  to  inculcate  a  direct  moral  lesson  (in  "On  the  Wai- 
pole  Road"  and  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath"). 

SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STORIES  OP  MOOD 

a.  Write  a  story  which  shall  be  as  tragic  as  you  can  make  it; 
another  which  shall  be  as  funny  as  you  can  permit  yourself  to 
become. 

b.  Select  some  poem  or  musical  composition  which  appeals  to 
you  for  the  intensity  and  perfection  with  which  it  conveys  a 
certain  mood ;  and  strive  to  reproduce  that  mood  as  exactly 
as  possible  in  a  story.  Try,  for  example,  to  catch  the  spirit  of 
Coleridge's  "Kubla  Khan,"  Burns's  "Comin'  through  the 
Rye,"  Moore's  "Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young 
charms,"  Thomson's  "City  of  Dreadful  Night,"  or  Pope's 
"Dunciad";  or  of  Beethoven's  "Moonlight  Sonata,"  Men- 
delssohn's "Spring  Song,"  or  Verdi's  " Miserere."/* 

E.  CONCERNING  THE  STORY  AS  A  WHOLE 

19.  Angle.    What  angle  of   narration  is  chosen?    Would  the 
choice  of  another  angle  have  improved  the  story? 

WITH  respect  to  the  "angle  of  narration,"  stories  are  classified 
according  as  they  are  written  in  the  third  person  or  the  first  per- 
son, according  as  they  tell  only  external  events  or  internal  mental 
processes  as  well,  and  according  as  they  are  told  from  the  point  of 
view  of  one  or  more  characters.  Third-person  stories  may  use  an 
unlimited  point  of  view  (the  omniscient  or  Godlike  angle),  or  may 
restrict  themselves  to  the  point  of  view  of  a  single  character  (the 
guardian-angel  angle),  or  may  tell  only  external  events  (angle  of 
the  invisible  spectator).  First- person  stories  may  be  told  by  the 
hero  (the  autobiographic  angle),  or  by  a  subordinate  actor  (angle 
of  the  minor  character),  or  by  some  one  entirely  apart  from  the 


338      ESSENTIALS  OF  SHORT-STORY  WRITING 

story  (angle  of  the  onlooker).  Additional  variations  are  the  letter 
method,  the  diary  method,  and  others. 

Study  the  use  of  the  Godlike  angle  in  "Among  the  Corn- 
Rows,"  "At  the  'Cadian  Ball,"  and  "The  Windigo";  of  the 
guardian-angel  angle  in  "The  Girl  at  Duke's" ;  of  the  angle  of  the 
invisible  spectator  in  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"  and  "Love 
of  Life" ;  of  the  autobiographic  angle  in  "A  Local  Colorist" ;  of 
the  angle  of  the  minor  character  in  "A  Municipal  Report" ;  and 
of  the  angle  of  the  onlooker  in  ^On  the  Walpole  Road"  and  "By 
the  Rod  of  His  Wrath." 

20.  Opening.    What  method  of  beginning  is  used?    Would  the 
story  be  improved  by  a  different  beginning? 

A  STORY  may  be  begun  either  by  the  direct  opening  (that  is,  at  the 
initial  step,  or  with  some  other  event  arousing  immediate  sus- 
pense), or  by  an  indirect  opening  (preparatory  explanation  of 
antecedent  action,  or  description  of  character  or  setting),  or  by  a 
roundabout  opening  (an  essay-like  discussion,  or  the  so-called 
"induction"). 

Study  the  direct  opening  in  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  the 
indirect  opening  in  "Among  the  Corn-Rows,"  "The  Pearls  of 
Loreto,"  "The  Girl  at  Duke's,"  and  "The  Windigo,"  and  the  dis- 
cursory  or  roundabout  opening  in  "By  the  Rod  of  His  Wrath." 
The  "induction"  is  illustrated  in  the  openings  of  "The  Arrival  of 
a  True  Southern  Lady"  and  "On  the  Walpole  Road." 

21.  Close.    What  method  of  ending  is  used?    Would  the  story 
be  improved  if  ended  in  a  different  way? 

THE  ending  may  be  direct  (with  the  immediate  denouement), 
indirect  (with  more  or  less  aftermath),  or  roundabout  (with  a 
moral,  interpretative  comment,  "echo,"  or  by  closing  the  "induc- 
tion"). 

Study  the  direct  ending  in  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  "The 
Pearls  of  Loreto,"  and  "The  Girl  at  Duke's" ;  the  indirect  ending 
in  "Among  the  Corn-Rows,"  "At  the  'Cadian  Ball,"  and  "The 
Windigo" ;  the  roundabout  ending,  with  a  sort  of  moral,  in  "By 
the  Rod  of  His  Wrath,"  by  echoing  the  title,  in  "Taking  the 
Blue  Ribbon,"  by  echoing  the  opening,  in  "  A  Municipal  Report," 
or  by  closing  the  induction,  in  "The  Arrival  of  a  True  Southern 
Lady"  and  "On  the  Walpole  Road." 


STUDY  QUESTIONS  AND  SUGGESTIONS       339 

22.  Truth.    Is  the  story  true  to  fact  (that  is,  based  to  any  extent 
on  actual  events)?    Is  it  true  to  life  (that  is, might  it  hap- 
pen)?    Is  it  true  to  itself  (that  is,  is  it  probable  and  con- 
sistent)?   Point  out  any  way  in  which  it  might  be  given 
added  truth. 

EXCEPT  for  a  few  touches  of  historical  fact  in  "The  Pearls  of 
Loreto"  and  "The  Windigo,"  our  stories  are  intended  merely  to 
be  true  to  life  and  consistent. 

23.  Unity.     Has  the  story  unity  of  time,  place,  and  action?    Has 
it  unity  of  point  of  view?    Has  it  inner  unity,  or  unity  of 
effect?    If  not,  could  these  unities  have  been  attained,  and 
would  the  story  have  been  improved  thereby? 

STUDY  for  examples  of  observance  of  all  the  unities,  both  outer 
and  inner,  "Among  the  Corn-Rows,"  "Ellie's  Furnishing,"  and 
(practically)  "The  Girl  at  Duke's." 

24.  Title.    Is  the  title  suitable  and  attractive?    In  what  spe- 
cial way  is  the  latter  quality  secured? 

A  TITLE  should  be  new,  brief,  apt,  "pat"  or  easily  slipping  off  the 
tongue,  and  above  all  attractive.  Some  of  the  ways  in  which  a 
title  may  be  made  attractive  are  by  alliteration,  figure  of  speech, 
word-play,  surprise,  puzzle,  allusion  to  the  Bible,  to  English  litera- 
ture, or  to  current  jargon,  use  of  a  foreign  phrase,  or  by  modest 
reserve. 

Study  the  titles  of  the  foregoing  stories,  and  also  of  those  in  the 
following  lists,  where  examples  of  all  the  qualities  of  a  good  title 
may  be  found  abundantly. 

25.  Style.     Are  any  faults  —  grammatical,  rhetorical,  or  sty- 
listic —  to  be  found  in  the  story?    Is  it  written  with  any  no- 
table power,  grace,  and  beauty?    What  is  its  length,  and 
is  this  well  judged?    Sum  up  briefly  your  estimate  of  the 
story's  excellencies  and  deficiencies. 

* 
*     * 

Remember  that  there  are  no  iron-clad  "rides  of  writing"  —  merely  counsels 
based  on  observation  and  experience.  Few  of  the  principles  suggested  above 
have  not  at  one  time  or  another  been  successfully  violated.  The  only  rule  that 
a  writer  must  observe  is,  Never  be  tedious.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  also  true 
that  thousands  of  writers  who  have  violated,  through  ignorance  or  pervcrsityt 
the  customary  principles  of  technique,  have  failed.  Even  in  order  to  violate 
them  successfully,  it  is  advisable  to  know  them  first. 


READING  LISTS 

(The  following  two  hundred  and  fifty  stories  and  plays  are  representative  of 
many  different  aspects  of  story  technique.  Most  of  them  may  justly  be  catted 
classics  in  their  respective  fields.  With  the  majority  of  them  the  student  and 
lover  of  the  short  story  should  be  familiar.) 

A.    ONE  HUNDRED  ADDITIONAL  LOCAL-COLOR  STORIES 

SEVENTY-FIVE    AMERICAN    LOCAL-COLOR    STORIES    IN    TWENTY-FIVE 
AMERICAN  SETTINGS 

I.  NEW  ENGLAND. 

1.  (Old  New   England.)    Rose  Terry  Cooke,  "Freedom 
Wheeler's  Controversy  with  Providence"  (in  Somebody's 
Neighbors} ;  Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman,  "The  Revolt  of 
Mother"  (in  A  New  England  Nun),  "A  New  England 
Nun"  (title  story) ;  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  "An  Only  Son" 
(in  Tales  of  New  England) ;  Alice  Brown,  "The  Flat-Iron 
Lot"  (in  Tiverton  Tales);  Rowland  E.  Robinson,  "An 
Old-Time  March  Meeting"  (in  Out  of  Bondage) ;  Dorothy 
Canfield,  "Flint  and  Fire"  (in  Hillsboro  People). 

2.  (New  England  Coast.)  Joseph  C.  Lincoln,  "Two  Pairs 
of  Shoes"  (in  The  Old  Home  House)',  J.  B.  Connolly, 
"The  Trawler"  (in  Head  Winds). 

IE.  THE  EAST. 

3.  (The  Middle  East.)  Margaret  Deland,  "The  Promises 
of   Dorothea"    (in   Old   Chester    Tales);   Sewell   Ford, 
"Through  the  Needle's  Eye"  (in  Truegate  of  Mogador). 

4.  (Upper  New  York.)  Philander  Deming,  "John's  Trial" 
(in  Adirondack  Stories). 

5.  (New  York  City.)  Washington  Irving,  "Dolph  Hey- 
liger"  (in  Bracebridge  Hall),  "Rip  Van  Winkle"  and 
"The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow"  (in  The  Sketch-book); 
R.  H.  Davis,  "My  Disreputable  Friend  Mr.  Raegen" 
(in  Gallegher) ;  Brander  Matthews,  "In  Search  of  Local 
Color"   (in  Vignettes  of  Manhattan);  O.  Henry,  "The 
Voice  of  the  City"  (title  story),  "An  Unfinished  Story" 
(in  The  Four  Million). 

6.  (Philadelphia.)  Thomas  A.  Janvier,  "In  the  St.  Peter's 
Set"  (in  The  Passing  of  Thomas). 


READING  LISTS  341 

7.  (The  Pennsylvania  Dutch.)  Helen  R.  Martin,  "The 
Narrow  Escape  of  Permilla"  (in   The  Betrothal  of  Ely- 
pholate) ;  Elsie  Singmaster  (Mrs.  Harold  Lewars),  "The 
Belsnickel"  (Century,  January,  1911). 

HI.  THE  SOUTH. 

8.  (The  Old  Dominion.)  fThomas  Nelson  Page,  "Marse 
Chan"  and  "Meh  Lady"  (in  In  Ole  Virginia) ;  F.  Hop- 
kinson  Smith,  "An  Old  Family  Servant"  (in  Colonel 
Carter  of  Carter  sville) ;  Armistead  C.  Gordon,  "Ommi- 
randy"  (title  story). 

9.  (Appalachia.)  Mary    N.    Murfree    ("Charles    Egbert 
Craddock"),  "Drifting  Down  Lost  Creek"  and  "The 
Dancin'  Party  at  Harrison's  Cove"  (in  In  the  Tennessee 
Mountains) ;  John  Fox,  "Christmas  Eve  on  Lonesome" 
(title  story),  "Hell  fer  Sartain"  (title  story) ;  Joel  Chand- 
ler Harris,   "At  Teague  Poteet's"   (in  Mingo) ;  Lucy 
Furman,  "A  Day's  Work"  (Outlook,  February  18, 1920). 

10.  (The  Blue  Grass.)   James  Lane  Allen,  "Two  Gentle- 
men of  Kentucky"  and  "King  Solomon  of  Kentucky" 
(in  Flute  and  Violin) ;  Mary  H.  Catherwood,  "A  Ken- 
tucky Princess"  (in  The  Queen  of  the  Swamp). 

11.  (The  Middle  South.)  Mary  N.  Carter,  "A  White  Day" 
(in  North  Carolina  Sketches). 

12.  (The  Lower  South.)    Augustus  B.   Longstreet,   "The 
Militia  Company  Drill"  (in  Georgia  Scenes)-,  Richard 
Malcolm  Johnston,  "The  Goosepond  School"  (in  Dukes- 
borough  Tales) ;  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  "Ananias"   (in 
Balaam  and  His  Master) ;    Harry    Stillwell    Edwards, 
" Aeneas Africanus"  (title  story);  W.  N.  Harben,  "The 
Convict's  Return"  (in  North  Georgia  Sketches) ;  Octavus 
Roy  Cohen,  "Painless  Extraction"  (in  Polished  Ebony). 

13.  (The  Swamp  Region.)   Frederick  Stuart  Greene,  "The 
Cat  of  the  Canebrakes"  (in  The  Yearbook  of  the  American 
Short  Story,  1916). 

14.  (Creole  Land.)  George  W.  Cable,  "Madame  Delphine" 
(title  story),  "  Jean-ah  Poquelin"  (in  Old  Creole  Days) ; 
Lafcadio  Hearn,  "Chita,  a  Memory  of  Last  Island" 
(title  story);   Grace  King,   "Monsieur  Motte"    (title 
story),  "Bonne  Maman"  (in  Tales  of  a  Time  and  Place). 

15.  (The  River  Country.)  J.  B.  Connolly,  "Down  River" 
(in  Head  Winds) ;  Elmore  Elliott  Peake,  "The  Flight  of 


342  READING  LISTS 

the  River  Belle'*  (Appleton's  Booklover's  Magazine,  Sep- 
tember, 1905). 

16.  (Ozarks   and    Canebrakes.)    Alice    French    ("Octave 
Thanet"),  "Whitsun  Harp,  Regulator"  (in  Knitters  in 
the  Sun). 

IV.  THE  MIDDLE  WEST. 

17.  (The  Corn  Belt.)  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  "Where  is 
Mary  Alice  Smith?"   (in  Sketches  in  Prose};  William 
Allen  White,  "The  One  a  Pharisee"  (in  God's  Puppets] ; 
Theodore  Dreiser,  "The  Lost  Phoebe"  (in  Free  and  Other 
Stories] ;  Sherwood  Anderson,  "The  Man  of  Ideas"  (in 
Winesburg,  Ohio). 

18.  (The  Wheat  Belt.)   Hamlin  Garland,  "The  Return  of  a 
Private"  and  "The  Lion's  Paw"   (in  Main  Travelled 
Roads] ;  Zona  Gale,  "Evening  Dress"  (in  Friendship  Vil- 
lage Love  Stories]. 

19.  (Chicago.)   Frank  Norris,  "A  Deal  in  WTieat"  (title 
story);  Henry  B.  Fuller,  "Striking  an  Average"   (in 
Under  tJie  Skylights] ;  George  Ade,  "Erne  Whittlesey"  (in 
In  Babel]. 

20.  (Mackinac.)  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood,  "The  Black 
Feather"  (in  Mackinac  and  Latce  Stories] ;  Stewart  Ed- 
ward White,  "The  Riverman"  (in  Blazed  Trail  Stories]. 

V.  THE  WEST. 

21.  (The  Cattle  Country.')  Owen  Wister,  "The  Jimmyjohn 
Boss"  (title  story);  O.  Henry,  "Hearts  and  Crosses" 
(in  The  Heart  of  the  West]. 

22.  (The  Mountain  West.)  Bret  Harte,  "The  Outcasts  of 
Poker  Flat"  and  "Tennessee's  Partner"  (in  The  Luck  of 
Roaring  Camp];  Mary  Hallock  Foote,  "Maverick"  (in 
The  Cup  of  Trembling] ;  Owen  Wister,  "Timberline"  (in 
Members  oftlie  Family]. 

23.  (The  Arid  West.)  Stewart  Edward  White,  "The  Emi- 
grant" (in  Arizona  Nights] ;  Frank  Norris,  "A  Memo- 
randum of  Sudden  Death"  (in  A  Deal  in  Wheat]. 

24.  (California  and  the  Old  West.)    Gertrude   Atherton, 
"The  Conquest  of  Dona  Jacoba"  (in  The  Splendid  Idle 
Forties];  Frank  Norris,  "The  House  with  the  Blinds" 
(in  The  Third  Circle]-,  Owen  Wister,  "Padre  Ignazio" 
(in  The  Jimmyjohn  Boss].  •  ' 


READING  LISTS  343 

25.  (Alaska.)  Jack  London,  "The  White  Silence"  (in  The 
Son  of  the  Wolf),  "To  Build  a  Fire"  (in  Lost  Face). 

TWENTY-FIVE  LOCAL-COLOR  STORIES  IN  TWENTY  FOREIGN  SETTINGS 

1    (Corsica.)  Merimee,  "Mateo  Falcone." 

2.  (English  Midlands.)  George  Eliot,   "Amos  Barton"   (in 
Scenes  jrom  Clerical  Life). 

3.  (Wessex.)  Thomas   Hardy,    "The   Three   Strangers"    (in 
Wessex   Tales),   "The  Son's  Veto"  (in   Life's  Little   Ironies); 
Eden  Phillpotts,  "An  Old  Testament  Man"  (in  The  Striking 
Hours) 

4.  (Cornwall.)  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch,  "The  Drawn  Blind"  (in 
The  Delectable  Duchy). 

5    (London,  East  End.)  Thomas  Burke,  "Gina  of  the  China- 
town'' (in  Limehouse  Nights). 

6.  (London,  Thames  River.)  W.  W.  Jacobs,  "The  Money 
Box"  (in  Odd  Craft). 

7.  (The  "Black  Country.")  Arnold  Bennett,  "The  Lion's 
Share"  (in  The  Matador  of  the  Five  Towns). 

8.  (Scotch  Highlands.)  R.  L.  Stevenson,  "The  Merry  Men" 
(title  story). 

9.  (Scotch  Lowlands.)  J.  M.  Barrie,  "How  Gavin  Birse  Pit 
it  to  Meg  Lownie"  (in  A  Window  in  Thrums)  •  Ian  Maclaren,  "A 
Fight  with  Death"  (in  Beside  the  Bonnie  Briar  Bush). 

10.  (Wales.)  Caradoc  Evans,  "A  Father  in  Sion"   (in  My 
People). 

11.  (Ireland.)  George  Moore,  "The  Exile"  (in  The  Untilied 
Field) 

12.  (Canada.)  Gilbert  Parker,  "A  Lodge  in  the  Wilderness" 
(in  Northern  Lights). 

13.  (Latin  America  )  O.  Henry,  "On  Behalf  of  the  Manage- 
ment" (in  Roads  of  Destiny).       $ 

14.  (South  Seas.)  R.  L.  Stevenson,  "The  Beach  of  Falesa"  (in 
Island  Nights  Entertainments). 

15  (Philippine  Islands.)  James  M.  Hopper,  "The  Struggles 
and  Triumph  of  Isidro"  (in  Caybigan). 

16  (India  )  Kipling,  "Without  Benefit  of  Clergy"  (in  Life's 
Handicap) ;  "On  the  City  Wall"  (in  InBlack  and  White),"In  the 
House  of  Suddhoo"  (in  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills) ;  Rabindranath 
Tagore,  "Vision"  (in  The  Hungry  Stones). 

17  vJapan.)  Lafcadio  Hearn,  "The  Dream  of  Akinosuke" 
(in  Kwaidan) ;  Pierre  Loti,  "The  Idyl  of  an  Old  Couple." 


344  READING  LISTS 

18.  (China.)  Lafcadio  Hearn,  "The  Soul  of  the  Great  Bell" 
(in  Some  Chinese  Ghosts). 

19.  (East  Indies.)  Joseph  Conrad,  "The  Lagoon'*  (in  Tales  of 
Unrest). 

20.  (Africa.)  Joseph  Conrad,  "An  Outpost  of  Progress"  (in 
Tales  of  Unrest). 

B.   TWENTY-FIVE  STORIES  OF  SOCIAL  BACKGROUND 

(School  and  College  Life.)  Owen  Wister,  "Philosophy  Four" 
(title  story);  C.  M.  Flandrau,  "Wellington"  (in  Harvard  Epi- 
sodes) ;  Frederick  Stuart  Greene,  "Molly  McGuire,  Fourteen" 
(Century,  September,  1917) ;  Kipling,  "The  Flag  of  Their  Coun- 
try" (in  Stalky  and  Co.) ;  Owen  Johnson,  "The  Tennessee  Shad" 
(in  Lawrenceville  Stories). 

(Sport.)  R.  D.  Paine,  "The  Freshman  Fullback"  (in  College 
Years). 

(Children.)  Kenneth  Grahame,  "The  Finding  of  the  Princess" 
(in  The  Golden  Age) ;  William  Allen  Wrhite,  "The  King  of  Boy- 
ville"  (in  The  Real  Issue) ;  Booth  Tarkington,  "The  Quiet  After- 
noon" (inPenrod). 

(Negroes.)  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  ''Brer  Rabbit,  Brer  Fox,  and 
the  Tar  Baby*'  (in  Uncle  Remus) ;  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar,"  Anner 
Lizer's  Stumblin*  Block"  (in  Folks  from  Dixie) ;  Ruth  McEnery 
Stuart,  "Holly  and  Pizen'*  (title  story). 

(Jews.)  Israel  Zangwill,  "A  Rose  of  the  Ghetto"  (in  The  King 
of  Schnorrers) ;  Bruno  Lessing,  "The  End  of  the  Task"  (in  Chil- 
dren of  Men). 

(Slums.)  Arthur  Morrison,  "On  the  Stairs**  (in  Tales  of  Mean 
Streets). 

(Artists.)  Edith  Wharton,  "The  Daunt  Diana"  (in  Tales  of 
Men  and  Ghosts) 

(Actors.)  Virginia  Tracy,  "The  Lotus  Eaters*'  (in  Merely 
Players). 

(Soldiers.)  Kipling,  "The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd"  (in  Life's 
Handicap). 

(Seamen.)  Joseph  Conrad,  "Typhoon**  (title  story). 

(Journalism.)  Jesse  Lynch  Williams,  "The  Stolen  Story" 
(title  story) ;  William  Allen  White,  "The  Casting  Out  of  Jimmy 
Myers"  (in  In  Our  Town). 

(Politics.)  Booth  Tarkington,  "Mrs.  Protheroe"  (in  In  ihe 
Arena) ;  Brand  Whitlock,  "The  Gold  Brick**  (title  story). 
u  (Business.)  Edwin  Lefevre,  "The  Woman  and  Her  Bonds** 


READING  LISTS  345 

(in  Wall  Street  Stories};  Edna  Ferber,  "His  Mother's  Son"  (in 
Roast  Beef  Medium). 

(Machinery.)  Kipling, "  .007  "  (in  The  Day's  Work). 

C.    FIFTEEN  HISTORICAL  SHORT  STORIES 

Hawthorne,  "The  Gray  Champion"  (in  Twice-Told  Tales}; 
Stevenson,  "The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door"  and  "A  Lodging  for 
the  Night"  (in  New  Arabian  Nights} ;  Kipling,  "A  Centurion  of 
the  Thirtieth"  and  "The  Joyous  Venture"  (in  Puck  of  Pook's 
Hill] ;  Ambrose  Bierce,  "The  Horseman  in  the  Sky"  (in  In  the 
Midst  of  Life};  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood,  "Wolfe's  Cove" 
(in  The  Cliase  of  St.  Castin},  "The  Little  Renault"  (in  The  Spirit 
of  an  Illinois  Town} ;  Maurice  Hewlett,  "The  Madonna  of  the 
Peach  Tree"  (in  Little  Novels  of  Italy} ;  Marjorie  Bowen,  "The 
Half  Brothers"  (in  Shadows  of  Yesterday};  Alexandre  Dumas, 
"Solange";  Gautier,  "Arria  Marcella";  Flaubert,  "Herodias"; 
Daudet,  "The  Last  Lesson"  and  "The  Siege  of  Berlin" ;  Anatole 
France,  "The  Procurator  of  Judea."  (Most  of  the  French  stories 
may  be  found  in  W.  H.  Wright's  collection,  The  Great  Modern 
French  Stories}. 

D.    FORTY  REPRESENTATIVE  PLOT  OR  CHARACTER 
STORIES 

A.    TEN  AMERICAN  STORIES  OF  PLOT  OR  CHARACTER 

Irving,  "Rip  Van  Winkle" ;  Hawthorne,  "Ethan  Brand'*  and 
" The  Ambitious  Guest" ;  Poe,  "The  Cask  of  Amontillado,"  " The 
Pit  and  the  Pendulum/'  and  "The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death" ; 
Aldrich,  "Marjorie  Daw" ;  H.  C.  Bunner,  "The  Love  Letters  of 
Smith"  (in  Short  Sixes} ;  Henry  James,  "The  Real  Thing";  O. 
Henry,  "A  Retrieved  Reformation.* 

B.    TEN  ENGLISH  STORIES  OF  PLOT  OR  CHARACTER 

Stevenson,  "Markheim'' ;  Kipling,  "The  Man  Who  Was"  and 
"The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King" ;  J.  M.  Barrie,  "A  Cloak  with 
Beads"  (m  A  Window  in  Thrums} ;  John  Brown,  "Rab  and  His 
Friends'*  (title  story) ;  Thomas  Hardy,  "A  Tragedy  of  Two  Am- 
bitions" (in  Life's  Little  Ironies};  Leonard  Merrick,  "The 
Bishop's  Comedy  '  (in  Whispers  about  Women} ;  John  Galsworthy, 
• '  Quality"  (in  The  Inn  of  Tranquillity} ;  Joseph  Conrad,  "Youth" 
(title  story) ;  Stacy  Aumonier,  "A  Source  of  Irritation "'  (Century, 
January,  1918). 


846  READING  LISTS 

4  C.    TEN  FRENCH  STORIES  OF  PLOT  OR  CHARACTER 

Gaii tier,  "The  Nest  of  Nightingales";  Maupassant,  "The 
Necklace,"  "A  Piece  of  String,"  and  "Two  Friends";  Balzac, 
"La  Grande  Breteche"  and  "A  Passion  in  the  Desert";  Daudet, 
"The  Elixir"  and  "Aged  Folk";  Coppee,  "The  Substitute"; 
Zola,  "The  Attack  on  the  Mill." 

D.  TEN  STORIES  OF  PLOT  OR  CHARACTER  FROM  RUSSIA  AND  OTHER    , 
COUNTRIES 

Pushkin,  "The  Queen  of  Spades";  Gogol,  "The  Cloak"; 
Dostoyevsky,  "The  Thief";  Tolstoy,  "The  Long  Exile"; 
Turgenev,  "A  Lear  of  the  Steppes";  Tchekhov,  "The  Darling"; 
Gorky,  "One  Autumn  Night" ;Heyse  (German),  "L'Arrabiata"; 
Bjoernsen  (Norwegian),  "The  Father";  Selma  Lagerlof  (Swed- 
ish), "A  Christmas  Guest."  (Most  of  the  Russian  stories  may  be 
found  in  Thomas  Seltzer's  Best  Russian  Short  Stories.) 

E.  TWENTY  REPRESENTATIVE  STORIES  OF  SPECIAL  TYPES 

A.    TEN  DETECTIVE  OR  MYSTERY  STORIES 

Poe,  "The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue"  and  "The  Purloined 
Letter";  Kipling,  "The  Mark  of  the  Beast"  (in  Life's  Handi- 
cap); Richard  Harding  Davis,  "Gallegher";  Conan  Doyle,  "The 
Red-Headed  League";  Owen  Johnson,  "One  Hundred  in  the 
Dark'';  G.  K.  Chesterton,  "The  Blue  Cross"  (in  The  Innocence 
of  Father  Brown} ,  Algernon  Blackwood,  "A  Psychical  Invasion" 
(in  John  Silence,  Physician  Extraordinary) ; Poe,  "The  Goldbug "; 
Stockton,  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?" 

B.  TEN  PURPOSE  OR  PROBLEM  STORIES 

Hawthorne,  "The  Birthmark"  and  "Dr.  Heidegger's  Experi- 
ment"; E.  E.  Hale,  "The  Man  without  a  Country";  Stevenson, 
"Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde"  and  "Will  of  the  Mill";  H.  G.  Wells, 
"  The  Country  of  the  Blind  " ;  Jerome  K.  Jerome, "  The  Passing  of 
the  Third  Floor  Back".  Tolstoy,  "God  Sees  the  Truth,  but 
Waits,'*  "Where  Love  is  There  God  is  Also ";  Andreyev,  "Laza- 
rus." 

C.  TEN  STORIES  OF  THE  SUPERNATURAL 

Merimee, *'  Venus  d'Hle ' ' ;  Poe, "  Ligeia  " ;  Kipling, ' '  The  Brush- 
wood Boy'*  (in  The  Day's  Work)  and  "They"  (in  Traffics  and 
Discoveries);  Henry  James,  "The  Turn  of  the  Screw"  (in  The 


READING  LISTS  347 

Two  Magics}-,  Edith  Wharton,  "The  Triumph  of  Night"  (in 
Xingu);  O.  Henry,  "The  Furnished  Room"  (in  The  Four  Mil- 
lion); Fiona  Macleod,  "The  Dan-nan-ron"  (in  The  Dominion  of 
Dreams);  Algernon  Blackwood,  "A  Haunted  Island"  (in  The 
Empty  House), "  The  Glamor  of  the  Snow  "  (Forum,  1911) ;  W.  W. 
Jacobs,  "The  Monkey's  Paw"  (in  The  Lady  of  the  Barge). 

F.  FIFTEEN  STORIES  OF  MOOD  (arranged  in  a  rising  scale) 

(The  Ludicrous,  or  Farcical.)  Ellis  Parker  Butler,  "Pigs  is 
Pigs  "  (American,  September,  1905). 

(The  Fantastic.)  Frank  R.  Stockton,  "The  Christmas  Wreck" 
(title  story);  Leonard  Merrick,  "The  Third  M"  (in  Whispers 
about  Women);  Lord  Dunsany,  "A  Story  of  Land  and  Sea" 
(Forum,  February,  1915). 

(Pure  Comedy.)  H.  C.  Bunner,  "A  Sisterly  Scheme"  (in  Short 
Sixes). 

(The  Grotesque.)  Mark  Twain,  "The  Jumping  Frog"  (title 
story);  O.  Henry,  "The  Hiding  of  Black  Bill"  (hi  Options). 

(The  Burlesque.)  Stephen  Leacock,  "A  Hero  in  Homespun" 
(in  Nonsense  Novels). 

(Irony.)  H.  G.  Wells,  "Miss  Winchelsea's  Heart"  (in  The 
Country  of  the  Blind). 

(Satire.)  Edith  Wharton,  "Xingu"  (title  story). 

(Sentiment.)  J.  M.  Barrie,  "Two  of  Them"  (title  story). 

(Pathos.)  Daudet,  "The  Death  of  the  Dauphin." 

(Pure  Tragedy.)  Poe,  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher"; 
Maupassant,  "The  Coward." 

(The  Terrible.)  H.  G.  Wells,  "The  Cone"  (in  Thirty  Strange 
Stories). 

(The  Horrible.)  Poe,  "The  Black  Cat." 

G.  SOME  REPRESENTATIVE  MODERN  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

A.    PLAYS  REMARKABLE  IN  FORM  AND  EXPRESSION 

George  Bernard  Shaw,  "How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband,"  "The 
Man  of  Destiny,"  "The  Dark  Lady  of  the  Sonnets,"  "The 
Showing  up  of  Blanco  Posnet,"  "Press  Cuttings";  J.  M.  Barrie, 
"The  Twelve  Pound  Look,"  "The  Will,"  "Rosalind"  (all  in 
Half  Hours);  Gorky,  "A  Night's  Lodging":  Strindberg,  "The 
Link,"  "Miss  Julia,"  "The  Stronger,''  "The  Outlaw,"  "Fac- 
ing Death";  Schnitzler,  "The  Affairs  of  Anatol"  (seven  plays); 
Tchekhov,  "A  Marriage  Proposal." 


348  READING  LISTS 

B.    PLAYS  REMARKABLE  FOR  LOCAL  COLOR  OR  DIALECT 

J.  M.  Synge,  "Riders  to  the  Sea";  W.  B.  Yeats,  "Cathleen  Ni 
Houlihan,"  "The  Pot  of  Broth";  Lady  Gregory,  "The  Work- 
house Ward,"  "The  Gaol  Gate,"  "Hyacinth  Halvey,"  "The 
Rising  of  the  Moon,"  "Spreading  the  News"  (all  in  Seven  Short 
Plays) ;  Percy  Mackaye,  Yankee  Fantasies  (five  plays) ;  Ridgely 
Torrence,  Plays  for  a  Negro  Theater  (three  plays);  Jeannette 
Marks,  Three  Welsh  Plays. 

C.    PLAYS  REMARKABLE  FOR  SYMBOLISM  OR  PRESENTATION  OF  THE 
SUPERNATURAL 

Maeterlinck,  "The  Intruder,"  "The  Blind,"  "Home";  C.  R. 
Kennedy,  "The  Terrible  Meek";  Lord  Dunsany,  "The  Glitter- 
ing Gate,"  "The  Golden  Doom,"  "The  Lost  Silk  Hat,"  "The 
Queen's  Enemies,"  "A  Night  at  an  Inn";  Lady  Gregory,  "The 
Traveling  Man";  W.  B.  Yeats,  "The  Hour  Glass";  Rabin- 
dranath  Tagore,  "Chitra";  Oscar  Wilde,  "Salome." 

D.    NOTEWORTHY  RECENT  AMERICAN  ONE- ACT  PLAYS 

Harvard  Plays  (4  vols.) ;  Washington  Square  Plays;  Wisconsin 
Plays  (2  vols.);  Provincetown  Plays;  Margaret  G.  Mayorga, 
Representative  One-Act  Plays  by  American  Authors. 


AMERICAN  GOVERNMENT 

GOVERNMENT  AND  POLITICS  IN  THE  UNITED 
STATES.    Revised  Edition. 

By  WILLIAM  B.  GUITTEAU,  Ph.D.,  Superintendent  of  Schools,  Toledo, 
Ohio. 

This  book  fully  covers  the  problems  of  American  Democracy. 
It  gives  an  adequate  knowledge  of  the  various  forms  of  government, 
local,  state,  and  national,  emphasizing  the  practical  activities  in 
which  students  are  most  interested,  and  the  problems  with  which  as 
citizens  they  will  be  most  concerned. 

GOVERNMENT  AND  POLITICS  IN  THE  UNITED 
STATES.    Briefer  Edition. 

By  WILLIAM  BACKUS  GUITTEAU. 

This  book  meets  the  requirements  of  high  schools  limiting  the 
work  in  civics  to  less  than  a  year 

PREPARING  FOR  CITIZENSHIP. 

By  WILLIAM  BACKUS  GUITTEAU. 

This  is  an  admirable  textbook  for  the  upper  grammar  grades,  or 
for  the  first  year  of  the  high  school.  All  necessary  facts  regarding 
local,  state,  and  national  government  are  given,  witb  the  main  em- 
phasis upon  the  practical  aspects  of  government. 

CIVIL  GOVERNMENT  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

By  JOHN  FISKE,  LL.D.    New  Edition,  with  additions  by  D.  S.  Sanforc^ 
Head  Master  of  the  Sanford  School,  Redding  Ridge,  Conn. 

AMERICAN  IDEALS. 

Edited  by  NORMAN  FOERSTER  ai;d  W.  W.  PIERSON,  Jr.,  University  of 
North  Carolina. 

This  collection  of  representative  essays  and  addresses  of  our  most 
eminent  statesmen  and  men  of  letters  reveals  the  broad  foundations 
from  which  our  national  ideals  have  sprung. 

AMERICANIZATION  AND  CITIZENSHIP. 

By  HANSON  HART  WEBSTER. 

Important  and  distinctive  features  of  this  book  are:  —  (i)  the 
Catechism  upon  the  United  States  Constitution ;  (2)  the  statement  of 
the  principles  underlying  our  government ;  (3)  the  explanation  of  the 
duties  and  privileges  of  citizens.  It  is  recommended  as  a  valuable 
handbook  for  all  Americans,  both  native  and  foreign-born. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY; 

mo 


LITERATURE  SELECTIONS 

Modern  Prose  and  Poetry  for  Secondary  Schools.  Edited 
by  MARGARET  ASHMUN. 

Prose  Literature  for  Secondary  Schools.  With  some  sug* 
gestions  for  correlation  with  composition.  Edited  by 
MARGARET  ASHMUN.  With  an  Introduction  by  WILLARD  G. 
BLEYER. 

The  High  School  Prize  Speaker.  Edited  by  WILLIAM  L. 
SNOW. 

American  and  English  Classics  for  Grammar  Grades. 

Selections  from  the  Riverside  Literature  Series  for  Fifth 
Grade  Reading. 

Selections  from  the  Riverside  Literature  Series  for  Sixth 
Grade  Reading. 

Selections  from  the  Riverside  Literature  Series  for  Seventh 
Grade  Reading. 

Selections  from  the  Riverside  Literature  Series  for  Eighth 
Grade  Reading. 

American  Classics.     (Poems  and  Prose.) 
American  Poems.    Edited  by  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER. 
American  Prose.    Edited  by  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER. 
Literary  Masterpieces. 

Masterpieces  of  American  Literature.  Edited  by  HORACB 
E.  SCUDDER. 

Masterpieces  of  British  Literature.  Edited  by  HORACE  E. 
SCUDDER. 

Masterpieces  of  Greek  Literature.  (Translations.)  Super 
vising  editor,  JOHN  HENRY  WRIGHT. 

Masterpieces  of  Latin  Literature.  (Translations.)  Edited 
by  G.  J.  LAING. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON   NEW  YORK   CHICAGO 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

A  Short  History  of  England's  Literature.    By  EVA  MARCH 
TAPPAN. 

A  Student's  History  of  English  Literature.    By  WILLIAM 
EDWARD  SIMONDS. 

Lives  of  Great  English  Writers.   From  Chaucer  to  Brown- 
ing.    By  W.  S.  HINCHMAN  and  FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE. 

Masterpieces    of  British   Literature.     Edited   by   HORACE 
E.  SCUDDER. 

Readings  in  English  Prose  of  the  i8th  Century.    Edited  by 
RAYMOND  MACDONALD  ALDEN. 

A  Victorian  Anthology.    Edited  by  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STED- 
MAN.     Students'  Edition. 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE 

A  Short  History  of  England's  and  America's  Literature, 
By  EVA  MARCH  TAPPAN. 

A  Short  History  of  America's  Literature.  With  Selections 
from  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  Writers.  By  EVA  MARCH 
TAPPAN. 

A  History  of  American  Literature.  By  WILLIAM  E.  SIMONDS, 

Masterpieces  of  American  Literature.  Edited  by  HORACE 
E.  SCUDDER. 

Readings  in  English  Prose  of  the  ipth  Century.  Edited  by 
RAYMOND  MACDONALD  ALDEN.  Part  7,  Part  II.  Complete. 

The  Chief  American  Prose  Writers.  Edited  by  NORM>N 
FOERSTER. 

An  American  Anthology.  Edited  by  EDMUND  CLARENCE 
STEDMAN.  Students'  Edition. 

The  Chief  American  Poets.    Edited  by  CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE. 

The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse.  Edited  by  JESSIE  B, 
RITTENHOUSE.  R.L.S.  No.  254.  Library  binding. 

The  Little  Book  of  American  Poets.  Edited  by  JESSIE  B. 
RITTENHOUSE.  R.L.S.  No.  255.  Library  binding. 

A  Treasury  of  War  Poetry.  Edited  by  GEORGE  HERBERT 
CLARKE.  R.L.S.  No.  262.  Cloth. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON        NEW  YORK       CHICAGO 


1909 


Riverside  Literature  Series 


LIBRARY  BINDING 


Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight,  and  Piers  the  Ploughman. 
WEBSTER  AND  NEILSON. 

Chaucer's  The  Prologue,  The  Knight's  Tale,  and  The  Nun's 
Priest's  Tale.  MATHER. 

Malory's  The  Book  of  Merlin  and  the  Book  of  Sir  Balin.  CHILD. 

Ralph  Roister  Doister.  CHILD. 

The  Second  Shepherds'  Play,  Everyman,  and  Other  Early  Plays. 
CHILD. 

Spenser's  Faerie  Queene.  Book  I.  SHACKFORD. 

Bacon's  Essays.  NORTHUP. 

Shakespeare  Questions.  SHEPARD. 

Milton's  Of  Education,  Areopagitica,  The  Commonwealth.  LOCK- 
WOOD. 

Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson.  JENSEN. 

Goldsmith's  The  Good-Natured  Man,  and  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer. DICKINSON. 

Sheridan's  The  School  for  Scandal.  WEBSTER. 

Shelley's  Poems.  (Selected.)  CLARKE. 

Huxley's  Autobiography,  and  Selected  Essays.  SNELL. 

Selections  from  the  Prose  Works  of  Matthew  Arnold.  JOHNSON. 

Selected  Literary  Essays  from  James  Russell  Lowell.  HOWE  and 

FOERSTER. 

Howells's  A  Modern  Instance. 

Briggs's  College  Life. 

Briggs's  To  College  Girls. 

Perry's  The  American  Mind  and  American  Idealism. 

Burroughs's  Studies  in  Nature  and  Literature. 

Newman's  University  Subjects. 

Bryce's  Promoting  Good  Citizenship. 

Eliot's  The  Training  for  an  Effective  Life. 

English  and  American  Sonnets.  LOCKWOOD. 

The  Little  Book  of  American  Poets.  RITTENHOUSE. 

The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse.  RITTENHOUSE. 

High  Tide.  An  Anthology  of  Contemporary  Poems.  RICHARDS. 

Minimum  College  Requirements  in  English  for  Study. 

The  Second  Book  of  Modem  Verse.  RITTENHOUSE. 

Abraham  Lincoln.    A  Play.  DRINK  WATER. 

1705 


RIVERSIDE  ESSAYS 

Edited  by  ADA  L.  F.  SNELL 

Associate  Professor  of  English,  Mount  Holyoke  College 

The  purpose  of  the  Riverside  Essays  is  to  present  to 
students  of  English  composition  essays  by  modern  au- 
thors which  deal  in  a  fresh  way  with  such  subjects  as 
politics,  science,  literature,  and  nature.  The  close  study 
of  vigorous  and  artistic  writing  is  generally  acknowledged 
to  be  the  best  method  of  gaining  a  mastery  of  the  tech- 
nique of  composition. 

In  the  Riverside  Essays  the  material  consists  of  essays 
which,  with  few  exceptions,  have  been  printed  entire. 
Other  advantages  of  the  Riverside  Essays  for  both  in- 
structor and  student  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  material  is 
presented  in  separate  volumes,  each  of  which  is  devoted 
to  a  single  author  and  contains  two  or  more  representa- 
tive essays. 

Finally,  the  series  has  none  of  the  earmarks  of  the 
ordinary  textbook  which  the  student  passes  on,  marked 
and  battered,  to  the  next  college  generation.  The  books 
are  attractively  printed,  and  bound  in  the  Library  Bind- 
ing of  the  Riverside  Literature  Series.  The  student  will 
therefore  be  glad  to  keep  these  books  for  his  own  library. 

PROMOTING  GOOD  CITIZENSHIP 

By  JAMES  BRYCE.     With  an  Introduction.    Riverside  Literature 
Series,  No.  227,  Library  Binding. 

STUDIES  IN  NATURE  AND  LITERATURE 

By  JOHN  BURROUGHS.     Riverside  Literature  Series,  No.  226^ 
Library  Binding. 

UNIVERSITY  SUBJECTS 

By  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN.  Riverside  Literature  Series ;  No.  225, 
Library  Binding. 

THE  AMERICAN  MIND  AND  AMERICAN  IDEALISM 

By  BLISS  PERRY.     With  an  Introduction.    Riverside  Literature 
Series,  No.  224,  Library  Binding. 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON    NEW  YORK    CHICAGO 

1406 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


^vetsr 

H^-SlvtU 

REC'D  LD 

MAY  0  *  1^97 

FFB     1  IPS'5 

IRCULA''"'  '   :  :  ^PT 

DEC  1  9  1997 

7Jan'63GBX 

Kr       '      LD 

196: 


D 


LD 


HAY  2 1^5 -2PM 


JUL291997 


LD  21A-50m-8,'61 
(Cl795slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB0! 1 550 


€055004051 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


